


Oath-breaker

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Death Omens, Dryads - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Seers, Warlocks, assorted magical creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2218707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a kingdom where magic is outlawed, Enjolras is a warlock, a fact that in itself is punishable by death. He has bigger things to worry about, fighting for liberty while also battling the predisposition that all warlocks are said to have, of going mad with power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oath-breaker

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Sci-Fi/Fantasy Big Bang](http://scifibigbang.livejournal.com/). Art by thejokergame found [here](http://thejokergame.livejournal.com/721.html).

[](http://thejokergame.livejournal.com/721.html)

The night is cold and dark. The sky is filled with heavy clouds that promise more of the relentless rain that has followed them throughout the day, chilling Enjolras to the bone. All he wants is a roaring fire to sit in front of, but he knows better than to start one here in the open, where it might draw unwanted attention.

"We need shelter," Combeferre says, glancing at Enjolras, no doubt noticing his discomfort. 

Courfeyrac stops walking for a moment, shutting his eyes as he concentrates, before smiling at them. "There's a cave just ahead."

It's small, but there's enough space for the three of them. They put their packs down against one of the walls and Courfeyrac sets about laying their bedrolls out while Combeferre and Enjolras combine their magic, collecting the rocks by the entrance into a boulder large enough to block most of the cold wind. 

Enjolras crouches in the middle of the cave, creating a camp fire, feeding it with his magic. It's satisfying to watch the way the flames just sit there without the need for fuel, just out of his own power. He knows it doesn't need to be particularly big for the three of them, just something that will keep them warm. Still, it's difficult to resist the urge to push that little bit further.

"Enjolras." 

He looks up with a pang of guilt, meeting Combeferre's eyes. His friend already has a sphere of water floating in the space over his open palm, an eyebrow raised. Enjolras presses his lips together, stubbornness warring with sense. "If you douse the fire with that, you'll fill the entire cave with smoke."

"Then we'll need to leave the cave behind and sleep outside with no fire," Combeferre replies calmly. "A sacrifice that I am willing to make. What about you?"

With a quiet sigh, Enjolras waves his hand and most of the flames disappear, leaving nothing but a small, proper campfire behind. Combeferre nods approvingly and allows his sphere of water to evaporate away with a small wiggle of his fingers. They both sit down and Courfeyrac frowns at them both, sitting between them. He reaches out both of his hands and Enjolras looks at Combeferre, giving him a small apologetic smile before taking Courfeyrac's hand. Combeferre does the same. 

A wave of calmness washes over Enjolras and it's cool, refreshing, much like the gentle flow of water in the stream back in his family's large estate. Enjolras shuts his eyes and remembers standing there, among the tall trees with the water lapping at his feet, where he met both Combeferre and Courfeyrac for the very first time. Back then, when they had all been young, Combeferre's skin had been the deep blue that Enjolras has since learned is natural for all young water elementals. Now that Combeferre is older, his skin is something closer to a light bluish green, which grows darker and bluer when he uses his water magic for extended periods of time.

Courfeyrac, on the other hand, hasn't changed at all, except to grow taller. He still has the same playful spirit, the easy grin, his angular fae features making him extraordinarily beautiful in the strangest of ways. He's attuned to the natural world around him in a way that Enjolras can't duplicate even if he tries paying attention to every single detail of their surroundings, and is even more attuned to the emotions of the people near him. He can influence the way somebody feels by simply touching their hand, but never does it without permission. 

"Better?" Courfeyrac asks after a while and Enjolras is quietly surprised to realise just how relaxed he feels now.

"Much better," Enjolras replies and Combeferre nods in agreement. Enjolras wraps his arm around Courfeyrac, just as Combeferre does the same. They smile at each other, and Enjolras squeezes Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Thank you."

"Now, let's get some sleep," Combeferre decides. "I think we're still an hour or so of walking away from the next town, so we better rest now so that we aren't tired tomorrow."

"You have the best ideas," Courfeyrac murmurs as they walk over to where their bedrolls have been laid out together. 

The three of them curl up into one heap, with Courfeyrac curled against Combeferre's chest, who lies back to back with Enjolras. It's been just the three of them for several years now and even when they're sleeping in a room in a tavern, they prefer to push the beds together so that they're all close. It's comforting, listening to their breathing as it grows deeper, slower, as they all fall asleep.

Enjolras is exhausted, having spent the majority of the day walking, and falls asleep immediately. Despite his exhaustion, he's the first to rise the next morning, waking as the first rays of sunlight shine through the entrance of the cave. 

He sits up, looking over at his friends. As they slept, Combeferre has wrapped his arm around Courfeyrac to hold him close. Their legs are tangled and their foreheads resting against each other and they both look perfectly content. Enjolras smiles at them and walks to the entrance of the cave, moving the boulder aside. It's as cloudy as it was the previous day and Enjolras can only hope that they will be able to reach the next town before the rain begins. It's also cold and he picks up his cloak, wrapping it around himself and beginning to gather his belongings as Combeferre and Courfeyrac begin to stir.

"Good morning," he murmurs as Combeferre stretches and sits up. Courfeyrac makes a quiet sound of complaint at the loss of warmth and follows suit.

"Is the weather any better than yesterday?" Combeferre asks, looking over at Enjolras. 

"Unfortunately not by much," he replies. "It's not raining yet, but that might not last for very long. We're probably better off leaving soon and trying to beat the rain. We'll find a tavern to stay dry in."

"Perhaps I'll find some work to do," Combeferre adds. "We could always do with more gold and I'm more likely to find something to do at a tavern in the middle of a town than I am out here."

"You never like staying idle for too long, do you?" Courfeyrac asks with a small smile. "Alright then, let's pack up and head off."

With that, they gather their bedrolls and their remaining belongings. Enjolras turns the boulder back to a small pile of rocks, leaving them to the side of the cave's entrance. Combeferre is watching him carefully and Enjolras supposes that he can't quite fault his friend for that. Combeferre is the last person who would believe that Enjolras is dangerous. However, the _reason_ that Enjolras isn't even half as dangerous as he once read he would be by his age is because he has Combeferre and Courfeyrac with him, to keep him in check. It's a little frustrating and incredibly terrifying, but even when Enjolras has the temptation to use more magic than necessary, as he did the previous night, Combeferre is there to keep an eye on him and Courfeyrac is there to calm him down. He has no idea where he would be without either of them and it terrifies him to think of a life without them, especially now that they've grown so used to each other's presence. 

He walks between Combeferre and Courfeyrac as they find the road leading to the town, telling them the stories that he once grew up with, back when he still had a home and a mother and a father. The fables come to him in his old nursemaid's voice and he recalls them with a fond smile, particularly the ones she would tell him when his parents weren't listening, of magic and creatures that weren't quite human.

They'd been nothing more than stories to him then, back when he didn't know any better and truly believed that magic was a thing of fiction. He'd certainly never expected to have his own magic, had never even though that he would be anything but human. He knows what he is now and knows the word has dangerous connotations. It's spoken in a hushed tone, like even uttering it will bring a punishment as harsh as actually _being_ one.

Magic, Enjolras is beginning to realise, is much more common in kingdom than he was once led to believe, behind the high walls and security of class and wealth. Warlocks, however, are not. They are rare, they are powerful and they are feared. Even among others with magical ability, Enjolras has quickly learned to conceal the extent of his powers, lest it bring him unwanted attention. Using magic within the borders of the kingdom is grounds for imprisonment. Being a warlock is punishable by death. It is not a fact that he wishes to advertise and luckily for him, he can get away with it most of the time. He can keep himself under control when he needs to and it's only in the safety of Combeferre and Courfeyrac's company that the rest of it comes out. With their help, he manages to control that well enough too.

"It's going to rain," Courfeyrac says as they're walking. He looks up at the dark clouds. "I think we're going to get a storm."

Combeferre hums in agreement and looks up as well. "The rain is definitely going to start before we reach shelter."

He sounds pleased about it, but then again, he _is_ a water elemental. Enjolras tries to think of the last time Combeferre was near running water and finds that he can't. He's been so focused on getting to their next destination and beating the weather that he hasn't even spared a thought for the fact that he's the only one who truly minds getting caught in the rain and even then, it's purely for his own comfort. With a quiet huff, Enjolras finds that he's furious with himself. He starts walking a little slower.

"Enjolras?" Courfeyrac asks, looking over at him.

"It's just rain," he mutters with a shrug. "It doesn't bother either of you, so it shouldn't bother me."

"But Enjolras," Combeferre says gently, "we aren't human."

"Well depending on who you ask," Enjolras replies with a wry grin, "neither am I. If the rain bothers me, I'll make sure that it doesn't fall on me. Simple as that. I've been making things more complicated than they need to be, just because I'm being selfish. I apologise."

Combeferre smiles warmly at Enjolras, and Courfeyrac squeezes his shoulder gently. Enjolras ducks his head to hide his small, pleased smile. 

It's not that he's particularly selfish, but the three of them have grown up with Combeferre and Courfeyrac making adjustments for him, without question. Enjolras has only recently started to realise the extent to which they go out of their way for his sake and he hates it, hates the fact that he knows it stems from their desire to protect him from those who would hunt him down and more importantly, from himself. They've taken on more responsibility than they should ever have had to deal with and Enjolras wouldn't change it for the world. He supposes that the only thing he can really do about it is pay more attention and make sure that it doesn't happen anywhere as often as it used to.

"Yeah, we definitely won't beat the rain," Courfeyrac says as he and Combeferre slow their pace to match Enjolras. "But we should still make it to the next town before the storm itself hits. I don't think any of us want to be caught in that."

The clouds overhead rumble, as if on cue. Enjolras looks up, listening to Combeferre's soft, satisfied hum as the rain begins to fall. Enjolras is not particularly keen on trudging through the rain in water-logged boots, but that's what his magic is for. He uses a simple shielding spell that covers his sides, curving over his head and beneath his feet, keeping him completely dry as the rain falls around him. 

Courfeyrac laughs delightedly as he raises his face to the sky, closing his eyes. Combeferre has his arms outstretched, sleeves pushed up. The rain falls onto his skin, which is turning from blue to green, the way it always does when he's particularly happy. Enjolras folds his arms across his chest, smiling to himself as he watches his friends enjoy the rain. Even though Courfeyrac is not an elemental like Combeferre, fae have a strong connection to the natural environment around them. It occurs to Enjolras that the reason Courfeyrac enjoys the rain so much is because of how happy it makes Combeferre. Enjolras tries not to feel guilty about how long it has taken him to realise the same, especially when he finally realises the reason why Combeferre is always so difficult to find when it rains, despite how reliable he usually is.

By the time they reach the edge of the town, all three of them are incredibly happy and Enjolras doesn't even bother dispelling his shield until they walk inside the tavern. They're outside the border of the kingdom now anyway, and shielding magic is basic enough that it won't give the rest of his power away. 

Then Enjolras realises that most of the patrons of the tavern aren't even looking at the three of them, but have their attention fixed on two people sitting at a table in the corner. One of them looks badly injured and the other looks like he's trying to help, sweating nervously. He looks human except for his hands, the colour of his skin going from light brown to black as night, his fingers curved into talons, like they're caught halfway between something human and avian. 

Enjolras has seen Combeferre perform healing magic enough times to know that this is what the man with the clawed hands is trying to do. The spell will gather energy between his hands before fizzling out into nothing and each time he tries and fails, he grows a little more frantic. 

"You need to touch him," one of the old men nearby is saying. "You can't work healing spells without contact, boy."

"I can't," comes the hysterical reply. "I can't. I need to make it work like this."

"It won't work," the old man replies, reaching for the younger man's arm. "Here—"

" _No_ ," he cries, but he cannot move his clawed hand away in time. The old man's hand closes around his wrist and there's a moment of pure silence.

Then, the old man howls in pain, stumbling backwards and clutching his hand. It doesn't seem outwardly damaged but his face in contorted, eyes rolling up to show the whites, and that makes the pain look real enough. The rest of the patrons shuffle backward as one.

"I'm sorry, I _told you_ ," the man replies holding his clawed hands to his chest in tight fists. There are tears in his eyes, but the crowd doesn't seem to notice that as they reach for their weapons.

Enjolras already knows the direction this is headed in and he needs to stop it, needs to find a way to help the man, to stop the crowd from attacking him just because they don't understand. He could do it easily and he knows that, but he also knows that it means exposing himself. He looks at the wicked blades that some of the others in the tavern are holding and decides that perhaps it's worth the risk.

"Stop," Combeferre says loudly, forestalling Enjolras as well as the others with a raised hand. He uses it to indicate the old man, whose cries of pain have subsided, and the injured man in the corner. "These men need a healer."

"We're not going to use _him_ again," an armoured woman spits. "He's a healer, he said. Look what good he's done!"

"I'm a healer," Combeferre replies calmly. "Please, put your weapons down. It's clear that this man is just as upset as you are about this."

Courfeyrac looks around the room, reading the emotions of everyone, and steps forward beside Combeferre. "It's true, my friend here is a very talented healer. I've known him since we were boys and he's had his fair share of practice patching me up after my mishaps. He must be a master healer by now. If not for him, I probably wouldn't have survived that time I was young and brave and decided to prove it by poking a stick at a nest of chimaera ants!"

Half the room laughs loudly while the other half winces. Courfeyrac grins, patting Combeferre on the back. He nods gratefully, checking the old man first, who waves him off and tells him that the pain is gone, before turning his attention to the man sitting in the corner, cuts all over his face and body, looking utterly worn down. Combeferre takes the seat beside him, hands already glowing with magic as they speak quietly.

Enjolras looks over at the man with clawed hands, who is looking increasingly miserable by the minute. He crosses the room to stand in front of him. "Are you alright?"

He gets a hollow laugh in reply. "I'm trying to be."

"I'm sorry about what happened."

"Really not your fault."

"I know that," Enjolras replies. "But somebody ought to apologise to you and I doubt that any of them are likely to."

This earns him a smile. "I'm Joly. Politeness dictates that I shake your hand, but politeness also dictates that I shouldn't make you howl in pain because it feels like your hand is being stripped down to the bone."

Enjolras smiles, keeping his hands at his sides. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Enjolras. That's Combeferre over there, and that's Courfeyrac."

Joly nods in greeting to the other two, and indicates a larger table. "Let me buy your meals, to thank you for your kindness. It's nice to be able to talk to people who don't shrink away and avoid me when I hurt someone."

By now, Combeferre has finished healing the injured man and he's having an animated conversation with Courfeyrac, looking much more active than he did just moments ago. Combeferre looks pleased as he walks over to Enjolras' side and looks at Joly.

"Is it just your hands that cause pain?" he asks quietly and when Joly nods, claps him on the shoulder. "Good to meet you, Joly. Your healing must be very advanced, I could feel the traces of it when I was healing Marius myself. You didn't touch him at all?"

"I'm trying to develop my healing so that I don't need contact," Joly replies. "It's not very effective so far, but I'm hoping that will change."

"Tell me more about it," Combeferre says as they sit down at the table. 

Courfeyrac takes Enjolras' hand, pulling him towards the table as well while introducing him to Marius, who is quiet but friendly. It's strange, for their group of three to suddenly be expanded to five, but as they eat together, Marius showing no fear of Joly as they talk, Enjolras realises that it's not such a bad thing.

:·:

"If it's alright with you, Joly," Combeferre says, when they've finished their meals and are sitting at their table with tankards of mead. "I would like to know more about what happened to your hands."

Joly looks down at them and sighs quietly, placing them flat on the table. "I offended the Goddess of Death, and she cursed me."

Combeferre's eyebrows rise. "Death cursed you Herself? Can I ask what you did to offend Her _that_ much?"

Joly laughs quietly and indicates the next table over with his tankard. "You see those people there? How they're doing their best to sit as far away from me as physically possible without actually lifting their table and moving it over to the other side of the tavern? Yeah, if the wrong people overheard my story I am pretty certain that I'll have bigger problems from these people. The torches and pitchforks kind of problem."

Enjolras visibly flinches at that. Witch hunts are a terrifying concept to anyone with magic, but Combeferre can only imagine what it must be like for a warlock. Luckily, Joly doesn't seem to notice.

"So it's the kind of story we save for when he have some privacy," Courfeyrac decides. "Marius, what about you? Tell us your story."

Marius shifts, looking uncomfortable to be the centre of attention. He drops his gaze to the tankard in front of him. "My family wanted me to leave. My grandfather discovered that I have some magic potential. I don't even have a lot of it, but I don't suppose that really matters to some people, because any magic is bad."

"Those people know nothing," Enjolras mutters angrily and gives Marius a small frown. "Is that why you were…?"

"My grandfather set his hounds on me," Marius tells him with a nod. "Funny, I grew up with them and we played together all the time, but…"

Courfeyrac places a hand on Marius' arm with a sympathetic noise. "Does that mean you don't have anywhere to go now? You should stay with us."

Combeferre glances in Enjolras' direction, but he simply shrugs in reply. With a smile, Combeferre then turns to Joly. "You too."

Joly looks surprised and pleased, and nods gratefully. "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

As the morning turns into afternoon, they move to a corner in one of the smaller rooms of the tavern, all of their chairs pulled close together in a circle. Between Joly's clawed hands and the severe look that Enjolras gives people when they come too close, they manage to get themselves some modicum of privacy and the conversation flows easier. The storm has grown so strong that they can hear the rain and the wind, pounding against the roof and the windows. It's so dark outside that it barely even feels like the sun is up.

Combeferre finds himself looking out of the window at the rain and it's tempting to go outside, despite the cracks of lightning that brighten up the sky and the booming thunder that is occasionally so loud that it makes the entire tavern shake.

Courfeyrac gets out of his armchair and joins Combeferre in his instead, squeezing in beside him and holding a hand out. Combeferre takes it with a small smile, feeling the urge to go outside slowly disappear. After so many years of knowing each other, Courfeyrac can pinpoint specific emotions in Combeferre, muting them or making them stronger as needed. Combeferre trusts him with all that he has, to the point where he will sometimes reach for Courfeyrac's hand himself when he needs to. Courfeyrac never has to ask why

They shift slightly on the chair to make themselves more comfortable, with Combeferre pulling Courfeyrac into his lap. It draws the attention of both Marius and Joly. Marius is the one to quietly clear his throat.

"Are the two of you…?"

"Oh," Courfeyrac says as they let go of each other's hands and then immediately hold on again. He looks at Combeferre. "We…"

Combeferre's heart sinks because _of course_ Courfeyrac can tell what he feels. The way his eyes widen says enough about how he feels in return. Combeferre is an idiot to hope for anything more.

"Of course not," Enjolras speaks up, shaking his head. "The three of us grew up together. We're like brothers to one another."

"Right," Combeferre says with a smile in Marius' direction. He can feel the uncomfortable twisting in his gut starting to fade and he gently pulls his hand out of Courfeyrac's grip. For some reason that he doesn't fully understand, it's a feeling that he wants to hold onto.

At least Courfeyrac doesn't move back to his seat. Combeferre is tempted to hold onto Courfeyrac's hip to make sure that it remains this way, but he keeps his hands to himself and turns his gaze to the window again. The conversation continues around him but now that he's avoiding Courfeyrac's hands, it's up to him to resist the urge to go into the rain on his own and he's never been good at staying away from water. 

It's just a storm, he muses to himself. The lightning strikes are far enough away that they're not going to put him in any direct danger. 

"Combeferre?" Courfeyrac calls softly, drawing his attention away from the window. 

"Excuse me," he says, slowly getting up. 

Enjolras meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow. "The rain?"

Combeferre smiles apologetically. At least now that Enjolras has noticed, he doesn't need to be quite as subtle about it as he used to be. 

"There's a storm outside, though," Enjolras says. "It's going to be dangerous."

"I'll be fine," Combeferre replies, nodding at Marius and Joly. "I'll be back soon enough." 

Courfeyrac looks like he's about to say something, but Combeferre doesn't stay to find out what it is. He walks around their circle of armchairs, heading towards the door. For the past few hours that they've been at the tavern, nobody has entered and nobody has left because of the weather. The patrons sitting in the front room eye Combeferre warily as he approaches the door. He's careful not to open it too wide, slipping outside and sighing in relief as he feels the rain falling on him. 

The rain always calms him, no matter how hard it may be. When he's standing in the rain, he doesn't need to think about anything else—especially not Courfeyrac and his unrequited feelings. All he needs to focus on is the way the water feels on his skin and the sense that everything is right with the world, if only for a little while.

"Combeferre," a voice calls from behind him, loud and familiar enough that he can hear it despite the storm. 

He turns his face up to the sky and sighs quietly before he turns around. "Courfeyrac. Go back inside, you're going to get drenched."

"I don't mind," Courfeyrac replies, walking towards Combeferre with his arms folded across his chest. "It's not safe out here, Combeferre. I'm not going back inside until you do."

With a frustrated sigh, Combeferre turns away from him. "You aren't going to guilt me into going inside."

"That's not—I'm not trying to make you feel guilty." Courfeyrac stops beside him and Combeferre doesn't even need to be looking at him to know that he's frowning.

"Feels a little like it," Combeferre replies with a quiet sigh that gets lost in the rain. He's angry at himself for not being able to rein in his feelings for Courfeyrac before they grew into what they are. He's angry at himself for even daring to hope that Courfeyrac would return those feelings. The last thing he wants to do is to take that anger out on Courfeyrac himself. "You don't need to be out here in the rain, Courfeyrac. I do. Go inside."

"I may not need to be out here because of the rain," Courfeyrac says, "but I need to be here because _you're_ here. The storm scares me, yes, but what scares me more is the thought of you being out here on your own."

Combeferre turns to Courfeyrac with a frown. "You aren't afraid of thunderstorms."

"Not usually, no," Courfeyrac replies, shaking his head. "But a day ago, the skies were absolutely clear without even the smallest hint of a storm coming. Now it's turned into this. Who knows what else it will become? A cyclone? A flood? I'm not leaving you out here on your own."

"You're right," Combeferre replies, frowning. "This is an odd storm. I… Courfeyrac, I don't think I've seen a storm of this severity come so quickly since we were young."

"Back when Enjolras couldn't completely control his magic," Courfeyrac says, his eyes widening with the realisation. "The point where a warlock's powers truly begin to emerge. Does that mean…?"

"There's another warlock out there somewhere." Combeferre can feel his heart pounding. "Somewhere relatively close, if we're caught in their storm. I remember when Enjolras' weather magic went out of control, it would only affect a certain area. The same must apply to this warlock as well."

"We should tell Enjolras," Courfeyrac decides. "I think that he would want to know. Actually, I'm pretty sure that he would want to _find_ this warlock."

"You're right," Combeferre agrees. "Alright then, let's go inside so we can tell him."

Courfeyrac smiles and reaches his hand out for Combeferre to take. For a brief moment, Combeferre considers not taking it, but he knows that it would only make their friendship strained. He doesn't really know how much more pushing it can take before falling apart and he isn't particularly keen on finding out. He takes Courfeyrac's hand and squeezes gently, immediately feeling better simply for the way Courfeyrac smiles at him.

"Are we okay?" Courfeyrac asks, because of course he isn't going to let Combeferre get away with not talking about it.

"Yeah." It only feels a little bit like he's lying. "Of course we are, Courfeyrac."

They walk back inside, drenched but happy, their hands still joined. Enjolras is halfway through organising a room for all of them to stay in and visibly relaxes when he sees the two of them. Marius smiles cautiously at Combeferre, who nods in reply. It's not Marius' fault any more than it's Courfeyrac's fault, and Combeferre isn't particularly interested in blaming anyone anyway. He'll find a way to deal with this on his own.

Enjolras gets them a room with enough space for all five of them to fit into comfortably. The moment that the door is shut and locked behind them, Enjolras turns to Combeferre and Courfeyrac and sends a spell in their direction to dry them off. Combeferre nods in thanks as Courfeyrac pushes two of the beds together so that they can all sit together.

"Joly was just about to tell us the story behind his curse," Enjolras says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Now that there's nobody else to overhear, we can have a _proper_ conversation."

"Ooh." Courfeyrac sits down as well and looks over at Joly. "Do tell."

Joly smiles wryly, looking down at his hands. "I used to go around towns outside of the kingdom border working as a healer, for quite a few years. I was fairly skilled at it and it worked out well for me, except then one of the people I was healing died before I could do anything, and I wasn't ready to give up on her."

"Oh," Combeferre says lowly, with a sinking feeling that he knows where this is going. Joly's hollow laugh confirms Combeferre's fears.

"So then I tried to bring her back. With necromancy. It was far beyond my skill and knowledge level. The Goddess of Death did not take very kindly to that at all."

"Wow," Marius says softly. "That's… dedicated of you to try and help her anyway. Did it work?"

Joly shakes his head. "No. I couldn't raise her. Not even for a while. She stayed dead and then my hands were turned into… these, and I can no longer touch people without causing them pain and I definitely can't heal any more, from the looks of it."

"That's unfair," Enjolras mutters. "You were only trying to help someone."

"Well, not really," Combeferre says with a small shrug. "The Goddess of Death is patient for our entire lives, until we're ready to go to Her. I don't think She would respond very well to having a life snatched away from Her after spending so long waiting for it. She probably isn't particularly fond of healers in general."

Joly laughs at that, sounding genuinely amused. "No, not really. Only delaying the inevitable, where Death is concerned."

Enjolras frowns. "That's still not fair, though. You can no longer heal, which was your primary source of work, and we've all seen the way people respond to your hands."

"What if you wore gloves?" Marius suggests. "Would that help at all?"

"Unfortunately, that doesn't help," Joly replies. "It doesn't matter what I try to cover my hands with. I've tried various materials but none of them seem to work at all. At least when I'm not wearing the gloves, people tend to stay away from my hands just because they don't quite look right, to put it mildly."

"Is there any way to break the curse?" Courfeyrac asks. "Something that will appease the Goddess of Death so you don't need to keep walking around with hands that hurt people and keep you from doing your work?"

"There _is_ a way," Joly says uncertainly, "I was told how to break the curse when Death cursed me in the first place. In order to make up for the death I tried to steal from her, I need to give her another death so that She'll forgive me. The only way I can break this curse is by killing someone, so I suppose that I'd better get used to hands. Claws. Whatever they are."

Courfeyrac smiles sadly at him. "You're a good man, Joly. You never deserved for this to happen to you."

Joly chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm sure Death would disagree, but thank you all the same."

"Do you think that it's possible to develop a style of healing magic that doesn't rely on contact?" Combeferre asks, genuinely interested in the concept. "If you'd like, I would happily try and work on it with you. I mean, the fact that I could feel any trace of your magic at all when healing Marius means that _something_ must have worked. Perhaps it just needs more practice."

"Perhaps," Joly agrees with a smile. "I would very much like to be able to heal again. Considering that it was my main source of income before I was cursed, I am definitely feeling its loss on more levels than one."

Enjolras' frown deepens and Courfeyrac reaches out to touch his shoulder without a word. 

"Well, considering my luck recently," Marius speaks up with a small smile, "I'll probably be a patient for you to practice on sooner or later."

"Don't you worry," Courfeyrac tells him. "Now that you're with us, we're going to make sure that you don't get hurt like that again. If anyone comes looking for you, trust me, Combeferre and Enjolras can go from kind to absolutely terrifying at the drop of a hat." 

"And I could always scare them away," Joly adds up, waving his clawed hand. "Thank you, though, I appreciate the offer. Thank you all. I haven't been accepted by a group of people like this ever since I was cursed. They generally tend to leave the moment that I tell them just how much damage my hands could potentially do to them."

"Well, like I said to Marius," Courfeyrac tells him, "now that you're with us, you don't need to worry about that sort of thing. We all look out for each other."

Combeferre and Enjolras both nod in agreement. Courfeyrac beams and Combeferre can't help the rush of affection he feels. He knows that Courfeyrac has noticed it, because he catches the turn of his head, but makes sure not to meet his eyes. This is going to be a problem unless he learns how to control his emotions. It's alright most of the time, because Courfeyrac only immediately picks up on the emotions of people around him when they're incredibly strong. All Combeferre has to do is avoid thinking about just how much he loves his friend. Surely, he can figure out how to manage that.

:·:

When Courfeyrac wakes up the next morning, he sees that the rain still hasn't stopped. It's not quite the storm that it was the previous night, but it's steady and shows absolutely no sign of relenting any time soon. He wakes up cold; he's used to sleeping with his side pressed against Combeferre but they'd slept in separate beds last night. Glancing around the room, he sees that Combeferre's bed is empty. Marius and Joly are still fast asleep. Enjolras is awake but not quite ready to get out of bed and he nods in greeting when Courfeyrac catches his eye.

"Combeferre went outside," Enjolras says before Courfeyrac can ask. 

"Thanks," Courfeyrac replies, getting out of bed and making sure that he's dressed for warmth before he goes downstairs. 

There are a few familiar faces from last night sitting around the bottom floor of the tavern. One of the girls serving breakfast to them smiles at Courfeyrac as he walks past.

"Your friend is out in the rain again. Strange man, that one."

Courfeyrac smiles. "He prefers being called _interesting_. He's a water elemental, you know."

"Oh," her eyes widen. "So that explains why he likes the rain so much. And why he's…"

She waves her hand vaguely and Courfeyrac laughs softly, understanding exactly what she means. "Why his skin is somewhere between blue and green, yes."

"It's beautiful," she says, not quite meeting Courfeyrac's eyes. "His skin, I mean."

"It is," Courfeyrac sighs in agreement. Combeferre is extraordinarily beautiful. Elementals aren't all that commonly found among the kingdom because they tend to keep to themselves, far away from the king and his anti-magic laws. Combeferre is the only one that Courfeyrac has ever seen. He clears his throat, shaking himself. "Anyway. I'm just going outside." 

He hangs his cloak up by the door, because he's going to need it more once he's back inside from the rain, then steps outside. He stands on the doorstep of the tavern for a moment, for the small amount of shelter it provides as he scans the area. Combeferre is walking in the rain, barefoot and with his shirt buttoned so loosely that it might as well be off. Courfeyrac's mouth goes dry at the sight and he stands where he is for a moment longer just so that he can gather his thoughts. Combeferre looks up, meeting his gaze, and smiles brilliantly. Courfeyrac smiles in return, walking into the rain, to Combeferre's side. 

"Good morning," Combeferre says warmly. "You didn't have to come out here."

"You're here," Courfeyrac replies, because that's all the reason he ever needs. 

Combeferre gives him a strange look, even as he reaches for Courfeyrac's hand. Their fingers interlock and Courfeyrac sighs quietly, trying not to think about how he feels for Combeferre and trying not to probe into the way Combeferre feels for him. It's unpleasant, being in love with someone and being able to read their every mood. It's even worse to get snippets of their feelings and find fondness there, afraid that it's only there because of Courfeyrac's influence. He can't control his influence on other people's emotions as well as Combeferre or Enjolras thinks that he can. He doesn't even know how to broach the fact that his greatest fear is the fact that Combeferre only loves him because Courfeyrac loves him so much that he projected without intending to. 

"What are you thinking about?" Combeferre asks softly, rubbing his thumb over the back of Courfeyrac's hand, his words accompanied by concern, affection, _love_.

"Nothing all that important," Courfeyrac lies, shaking his head. "I was just thinking about how we should tell Enjolras about that other warlock that must be out there. Probably before Marius and Joly wake up so that Enjolras can figure out where this other warlock is located and then we can come up with some sort of explanation as to why we're heading there, carefully edited to not involve warlocks at all."

Combeferre nods. "That's a very good idea. Should we go inside and get him?"

Courfeyrac turns to the tavern, just in time to see the door open as Enjolras walks out. "Looks like we don't need to."

Enjolras is using the same shielding spell as he did yesterday to keep himself dry. He's bundled up warmly and it makes Courfeyrac notice the cold for the first time since he laid eyes on Combeferre this morning. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," Combeferre replies, smiling. "We were just about to go inside and find you, actually, but it might be better to have this conversation right here where we're less likely to be overheard."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "That sounds serious."

"It really is," Courfeyrac says, serious in a way he only reserves for truly important situations. "Last night, when Combeferre and I were out here in the storm, we realised something about the weather."

"The weather?" Enjolras asks, frowning.

"Do you remember when you were only just starting to develop your magic abilities a few years ago?" Combeferre asks. "When you couldn't quite control anything?"

"Oh," Enjolras' eyes widen. "Of all the magic that I was capable of, it was my weather magic that was most difficult to learn how to control. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"We're saying that we think there's another warlock somewhere nearby," Courfeyrac smiles. "Imagine that, Enjolras. Someone else who'll understand exactly what it's like to be like you."

"Someone else who is going to need guidance and learn how to control their magic," Enjolras says. "It's bad enough that I need you to monitor me all the time. If we find yet another warlock, you know that I'm going to be relying on your help to do the same for them. Are you ready for that?"

"Well, what do you think?" Courfeyrac asks, turning to Combeferre. "I think we did a pretty good job of it the first time around."

"I agree," Combeferre smiles. "Who knows, I'm fairly certain that after Enjolras, dealing with any other warlock will be a walk in the park."

" _Hey_ ," Enjolras says, even though he's grinning. "I resent that."

"What we're saying," Courfeyrac tells him with a laugh, "is that we're definitely ready. You're going to have to figure out where exactly this other warlock is, though. And then we'll have to come up with a reason to be heading in that direction for Marius and Joly, because I don't really think you're ready to tell them that you're searching for a fellow warlock."

"And you're going to have to come up with a very compelling reason to start moving if it's going to continue raining like this," Combeferre adds.

"Unless I stop the rain," Enjolras points out. "I have never tried my magic against another warlock's, but I think that I have enough control over my weather magic to overpower this storm. I can make it gradually die out so that it doesn't _look_ like it's been caused by magic. That should also give me enough time to figure out which direction we need to start travelling in."

"You're a genius!" Courfeyrac exclaims. "That's a brilliant idea."

Enjolras looks up at the sky, shutting his eyes. Courfeyrac watches him eagerly, because Enjolras rarely has the opportunity to use the full force of his magic out of fear that he'll be discovered. He knows how much Enjolras hates having to control it, but they all know the price that he'd have to pay if he doesn't. There's no outward sign of the spell being cast, except for the way the rainfall suddenly doesn't seem as hard as it was a moment before. 

"There we go," Enjolras says quietly, unable to help the smile tugging at his lips. "The storm should completely clear up in a couple of hours. That should be enough time for us."

"Definitely," Combeferre agrees. "Thank you, Enjolras."

"My pleasure," Enjolras replies, rocking back on the balls of his feet. "You know, if we wanted to start moving earlier, I could clear it up faster."

"I know that." Combeferre's voice is calm, but Courfeyrac knows him well enough to tell that he's choosing his words very carefully. Enjolras probably does as well. "If we need to get moving earlier, I'll let you know. Otherwise, I think two hours is enough time for the storm to clear away without anyone becoming suspicious that there's anything magical about it. I don't suppose you could use your magic to keep the skies cloudy for a little longer than they would be otherwise, just so it seems like the storm is moving on, rather than disappearing entirely?"

"I could," Enjolras agrees, nodding. 

"Courfeyrac and I will work on figuring out the source of the other magic so we can track down this other warlock," Combeferre decides. "I'm certain that there will be some kind of similarity between warlocks. Considering we're both so familiar with your magic, I doubt that it will take us very long."

"Oh, that's clever," Courfeyrac murmurs appreciatively, smiling at Combeferre. Combeferre returns the smile and the rush of happiness that Courfeyrac picks up on makes his heart skip a beat. The fact that Combeferre is happy to the point that he can't hold it back is pleasant, made doubly so by the fact that it's because of Courfeyrac. 

The thought is quickly accompanied by guilt, because Courfeyrac is certain that he's the one to blame for Combeferre feeling any of this anyway. It makes him feel like he doesn't deserve to enjoy the feeling half as much as he does and he tries to push it from his mind, tries to ignore the happiness, now accompanied by fondness as well. It's difficult, because every part of him screams to just walk into Combeferre's arms, to make him even happier, to turn the pleasant warmth of his fondness into the burning love that he picks up every now and then. He wants to pretend that the feeling originates with Combeferre, not him, but he knows better and that's enough to keep him maintaining his distance instead of moving closer, tearing his gaze away from Combeferre and focusing on Enjolras' happiness as well. It's even stronger than Combeferre's emotions, a cacophony of freedom, victory, satisfaction, pride. Courfeyrac can feel the darkness that lingers beneath it, knows just how bad things could be if Enjolras loses control of himself even better than Combeferre does. It frightens him but more than that, it makes him feel determined. 

He and Combeferre have done well to curb Enjolras' desires for more magic and more power so far. They can keep it up, he's certain of it. They don't have much of a choice anyway, and that's yet another reason for Courfeyrac to keep his emotional distance from Combeferre, as much as he doesn't want to. Risking their friendship means that they're risking their ability to keep Enjolras in control of himself. He knows for certain that despite his ability to influence emotions, he wouldn't be able to handle Enjolras on his own. Even without the same kind of influence, he's sure that Combeferre would do better, but even that probably wouldn't be enough. 

"I'm going back inside," Enjolras speaks up, cutting through Courfeyrac's thoughts. "Even with the shield up, I can't say that I'm particularly fond of the rain. I'll meet you both upstairs when you come inside."

"I'm going to stay out here a little longer," Combeferre replies.

"Me too," Courfeyrac decides. "We'll see if we can figure out which direction to travel in."

Enjolras nods at them both before he turns back to the tavern. Courfeyrac stands right where he is, folding his arms across his chest and looking up at the sky. 

They both stand there in silence until Combeferre clears his throat. "You seem distracted."

"I'm…" Courfeyrac stops before he can try to deny the fact. With a heavy sigh, his shoulders slump. "I suppose I am."

"If I asked you what was distracting you, would you tell me?" Combeferre asks, sounding unsure of himself. Courfeyrac wonders when they stopped being friends that would share everything without a second thought. He wonders when they started hiding things from each other, started lying by omission.

Probably when Courfeyrac started developing feelings for him. This entire thing is Courfeyrac's fault. 

"No," Courfeyrac says, feeling brave, daring himself to tell the truth.

Combeferre stares at him for a long time, considering, and it makes Courfeyrac feel like he's being stripped bare. He can barely stand it but at the same time, he never wants Combeferre to look away. Finally, Combeferre sighs quietly and turns away, back to the sky, back to the rain. "Okay." 

For a moment, Courfeyrac is confused. He'd expected Combeferre to push anyway, to insist that they could talk, no matter what it was about. He hadn't expected _this_ , hadn't expected the way that Combeferre had simply just turned away. 

"I'm enjoying the rain before it stops falling," Combeferre tells him. "You don't have to wait out here with me."

"But I don't have to go inside either," Courfeyrac replies. 

Combeferre doesn't look at him, but Courfeyrac can see the rise and fall of his chest as he takes a deep breath, then exhales. "No, I suppose not."

Courfeyrac presses his lips together into a thin line. "'I think I'll go inside."

"I'll see you later," Combeferre murmurs and it's a clear dismissal. Courfeyrac doesn't quite feel the need to stand around for any longer, but he doesn't quite want to go inside and deal with the questions that Enjolras will no doubt have once he realises that Courfeyrac isn't as cheerful as usual. 

"Wait," he says quietly. "The warlock." 

Combeferre turns to him this time, deep blue eyes matching the hue of his skin. "All we need is a direction. Can't you feel where the magic is coming from?"

Courfeyrac stops and concentrates. He ignores the familiar feeling of Enjolras' magic and casts his senses out for something similar. " _There_."

"There," Combeferre echoes, nodding in the same direction that Courfeyrac has turned to. "Simple."

"Okay," Courfeyrac sighs quietly. "I guess that's one problem solved."

"Yes it is," Combeferre agrees. "See you inside."

Courfeyrac hates sulking. He hates being in anything less than a good mood and he especially hates sulking about _Combeferre_. He does his best to hide it as he walks back into the tavern, taking his dry cloak off the hook by the door and wrapping it around his shoulders. The serving girl from before smile when she sees him.

"Is your friend still outside?"

"He is," Courfeyrac replies. "Perhaps when he comes back in, you could give him some warm soup to drink? I'll pay you beforehand—"

"No need," she tells him with a conspiratorial smile. "I was thinking the same thing myself. I'm sure a bowlful won't be missed, considering just how much we've made in the kitchens. It always sells incredibly well when the weather's this bad."

"He'll appreciate it," Courfeyrac tells her, making a note to slip the money to another staff member when she's not looking. "Thank you."

"You look like you could do with some soup yourself," she tells him.

Courfeyrac looks down at himself. His cloak's already beginning to get soaked through and he grimaces at her. "I think I'd rather just go upstairs and get dry, to be honest. I'll be much happier once I'm out of these wet clothes."

She smirks at that and if he were in a better mood, Courfeyrac would definitely appreciate that. As it is, he simply nods at her and continues on his way. 

Enjolras takes one look at him as soon as he's upstairs and frowns. "What's the matter?"

Courfeyrac shrugs. "I'll be happier once I'm dry."

The next moment, he is. Enjolras hadn't even needed to incant a spell, or lift a finger. Courfeyrac looks down, then at Enjolras, whose wide eyes suggest that it hadn't been on purpose. At least Joly and Marius are no longer in their room to see it.

"I don't like it when you lie," Enjolras says, and it's as much of an explanation as it is a statement. 

"I _am_ happier," Courfeyrac replies, walking over to Enjolras' bed and sitting down beside him. 

"But you're not _happy_ ," Enjolras counters. "I don't like it when you're unhappy."

"I don't like it either," Courfeyrac sighs, then holds a hand out for Enjolras. "Think happy thoughts for me?"

Enjolras smiles warmly at him and clasps his hand tightly. Courfeyrac opens his mind, grateful for the way it immediately fills with memories of them as children, playing in the woods on Enjolras' family estate. Enjolras thinks about the times they'd explored their magic together and all the games they'd come up with between themselves. There are things Courfeyrac had forgotten entirely, like the time that Enjolras had tried to see if he could use his magic to help him climb the tallest tree. He remembers it now, the way that Enjolras had gotten up higher than he ever had before and in his excitement, had fallen back down. He remembers being concerned, rushing over with Combeferre to check on him, only to find Enjolras laughing with delight. 

"Thank you." Courfeyrac smiles, squeezing Enjolras' hand before letting go.

"Any time," Enjolras replies, bumping their shoulders together. "Come on, let's go downstairs. I think that Joly and Marius said that they were going to get something to eat."

"Sounds good." Courfeyrac gets to his feet, but before they start walking, he grins at Enjolras. "We figured out which direction we need to travel in, by the way."

Enjolras' expression brightens. "You have? Brilliant. We can start going soon then."

"Once the storm has cleared up," Courfeyrac reminds him. "I don't think you really need to speed the process up any more than you already have. Thank you again for that, by the way. I think Combeferre is enjoying the rain while he still can."

"Oh, right." Enjolras nods in understanding. "If I make the storm leave quicker, that means it's going to stop raining…"

"…And as much as most people would appreciate that, the rain makes Combeferre happy," Courfeyrac finishes. "Exactly."

"The storm can wait," Enjolras decides. "Shall we?"

:·:

The storm has completely cleared up by midday and Enjolras is eager to leave. He's restless, not only from staying in the one place for so long, but also because he knows that the sooner they start moving, the sooner they'll get to the other warlock. In all of his twenty years, Enjolras has never met another warlock even though he's thought about it all the time. He's wondered if he would be able to pick one by sight, if he would be able to recognise the power that flows through them, if it would resonate with his own.

He's about to answer the questions that have kept him awake time and again, but they're not going anywhere because the rest of the group insists that they _eat_ first and the only reason Enjolras doesn't scream out in frustration is because he has the presence of mind to reach for Courfeyrac's hand, fingers digging into the soft skin as wave after wave of calmness rushes over him. He gradually loosens his grip and looks down, starting when he sees the marks his nails left behind on the back of Courfeyrac's hand. Combeferre follows his gaze and any other person might think that his expression is as blank as before, but Enjolras catches the light twitch of his eyebrows, the way the corners of his mouth turn down. 

"We'll eat," Joly says, "so that we'll all have our strength up for the journey. It's the absolute worst thing in the world to be in between towns and have hunger strike you so hard that you can barely walk."

"We have food in our packs," Enjolras points out, and Courfeyrac silently takes his hand again. 

"Marius doesn't," Combeferre replies. "And he's spent the past few days running and injured. Even if Joly and I healed him last night, he won't have his full energy just yet."

"Then you can have _my_ food." Enjolras turns to Marius, who shrinks back under his gaze.

"Enjolras," Combeferre says sharply. "I understand that you're eager to get going now that the weather has cleared up, but I know that if you stopped and allowed yourself to be rational, you would think of what the entire group needs."

Enjolras feels yet another wave of calm, stronger than before. It lingers, rather than washing over him and then disappearing. It's one thing for Courfeyrac to influence emotions by sending suggestions of them in the hopes that his subject's mind will latch on to it. It's a completely different matter for him to hold an emotion like this, to sustain it with his will rather than his subject's. Enjolras knows how much it strains Courfeyrac and how rarely he tries to do it. This fact alone is enough to make Enjolras push his impatience aside and listen. 

"I'm sorry, you're right. We'll eat first."

The tavern is not as full as it was previously, as most of the guests had started leaving as soon as the rain was light enough to be a slight nuisance rather than the forbidding storm that it had been before. By the time the sun had come out, most of them were gone. The tavern is left with more food than needed and those who have remained behind benefit from it, as they've lowered their prices. 

The five of them eat a hearty meal and Enjolras raises his eyebrow as one of the serving girls brings bowls of soup to place by Combeferre, her gaze lingering on him. He doesn't notice, immersed in a conversation with Courfeyrac about the effect the storm would have had on the quality of the roads. Courfeyrac's gaze flicks to her on occasion as she walks away and Enjolras doesn't quite know how to identify the look in his eyes. He chalks it up to Courfeyrac being protective, even though that doesn't quite feel right, and he pushes it out of his mind, focusing on his food. The faster that they all finish, the faster they can get on their way. 

Enjolras feels much happier when they're finally on their way, the tavern and the rest of the town growing smaller in the distance behind them. Walking in a group of five is very different to just travelling with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The dynamic has changed, Courfeyrac has made close friends with Marius, drawing his happier childhood stories out of him while Combeferre speaks to Joly about healing and other kinds of magic. It's not that Enjolras feels left out, but it means that he's left to his own thoughts more than he normally is. He thinks about this other warlock again, wonders what kind of person they're like. He wonders if they have support that is even half as good as Combeferre and Courfeyrac are, if they have someone to rein them in when needed. 

From what Combeferre and Courfeyrac have told him, it seems that the warlock is only just coming into the full extent of their magical ability. Enjolras thinks back to when he was at the same stage, thinks of the rain and wind and on one occasion, the fire that had blazed through his family's estate. Every single one of those times, it had been Combeferre and Courfeyrac to calm him down, to remind him how to control himself. He can't even imagine the kind of man he would be now without them and for a moment, is struck with the fear that whoever it is behind this storm might be that very sort of person. 

A surge of anger runs through him at the very notion that they could be on their way to find someone who would put them in danger. Courfeyrac, mid-conversation with Marius, suddenly falls silent and turns to Enjolras.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras says quietly, shaking his head. "I'm thinking of hypotheticals."

Courfeyrac doesn't take his hand, but watches him for a long moment before he smiles. "I don't think you need to be worried. I trust you. You'll keep us safe."

Marius looks over at Enjolras curiously. Enjolras tenses, knowing what Marius is going to ask. So far, they've avoided the subject of Enjolras' magic. He's made it obvious enough that he _has_ it, but while they've all gotten into lengthy discussions behind closed doors about what they're capable of, Enjolras has evaded the questions so far. He knows that there is only so long that he can do so and he's prepared to lie as soon as he asked, but Marius only looks at him, a slight frown drawing his eyebrows together, before turning away without a word. 

Enjolras doesn't know whether that makes him feel better or worse. He knows that he can be intimidating even without trying. He can only hope that it doesn't end up making him seem suspicious to their travel companions. As much as he likes them and knows that none of them are the type to fear magic, it doesn't guarantee that they would take the fact that he is a warlock particularly well. Being a warlock means that he is more than likely to lose control of himself and hurt the people around him and while it's already against the laws of the kingdom to be practicing magic, it's even worse to be harbouring a warlock without reporting them. 

Again, Enjolras thinks of the unknown warlock that they are going to find, and steels himself for whatever else they find too. He can speculate all that he wants, but he's not going to know until they actually get there. 

This warlock, Combeferre explains to Enjolras in an undertone when they have a chance to walk together, has a wide enough range that there is a considerable amount of distance that they will need to travel.

"Days?" Enjolras asks, feeling his impatience flare up. " _Weeks_? How long will we need to travel?"

"Only a few days," Combeferre assures him. "There's a town that we'll need to travel through, slightly larger than the last, and then the woods that separate us from the border of the kingdom."

"We'll need to cross the border?" Enjolras asks, glancing over at Marius and Joly. "I don't think that will be very easy. Not for us to convince the others and…"

"Definitely not for Joly," Combeferre finishes, nodding. "We'll have to work something out there. I'm sure we can get him to wear gloves, it's just convincing him to enter the kingdom again that will be the issue."

"And you?" Enjolras asks. "I'll disguise you with my magic if you need me to. Make your skin look more… human."

"That's fine, I'm confident enough in my illusory magic now. Thank you all the same." 

"I hate seeing you disguise your skin," Enjolras mutters. "You don't look right."

"I don't _feel_ right either," Combeferre replies with a quiet chuckle. He places his hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "Whatever will ensure I can walk around in the open without being arrested for the pure fact that I exist, I suppose."

"I hate it," Enjolras growls, feeling his anger rising. He catches the concerned glance Courfeyrac throws in his direction, and the way Combeferre subtly shakes his head, tightening his grip on Enjolras' shoulder a little.

"I know you do, but we'll change that someday. For now, let's just focus on reaching our destination. We'll be there soon enough. I know that you're looking forward to it."

"I am," Enjolras replies, letting Combeferre distract him. "I'm just concerned about getting there, that's all."

"I'm sure it will be an easy enough journey," Combeferre says with a reassuring smile.

It's not often that Combeferre is wrong, but it turns out that when he is, he's _incredibly_ wrong.

Everything is absolutely fine as they walk between towns. It's only as they're approaching the next town, with its walls and taller buildings within sight, that they find a body slumped on the road. Marius is the first to spot it, crying out in alarm and unthinkingly reaching for Joly's hand. His scream becomes pained and Joly snatches his hand away, looking distressed. Combeferre and Courfeyrac step in between them, calming them both down and holding Marius still until the pain fades. 

"Is he dead?" Courfeyrac asks, cautiously approaching the body.

"No," Joly replies immediately. "Just passed out, I think."

"He looks as though he's been here for a while," Combeferre says, his nose wrinkling. "Smells it, too."

"You think he was passed out here through that storm?" Joly asks, alarmed. "He'll fall sick. We need to get him somewhere dry and warm!"

Enjolras nods without arguing. He bends down, having to turn his face away and cover his mouth and nose for a moment. He mutters a quick spell to make the man easier to carry and to make the stench disappear, standing up and supporting him as they all walk towards the town.

Courfeyrac goes ahead with Marius, to find a tavern with rooms and, hopefully, a bath. Enjolras keeps a steady pace and Joly hovers with concern, asking Combeferre to check the man's breathing and his pulse.

They end up at a tavern just off the main road. Courfeyrac has told the owner that their friend has passed out and needs a bath and a warm meal. Enjolras bears the strange looks he receives for his mud-covered companion and gratefully follows one of the tavern's staff to the washing area out the back.

"Do you need help?" Combeferre asks, but Enjolras waves him away.

"I can manage."

The man hasn't stirred once and Enjolras unceremoniously dumps him on the stool against the wall with a sigh. There's nobody else in sight—he makes sure to check the windows too—and so he uses a spell to clean all the mud away instead of doing it himself, until the man looks as presentable as he possibly can with shaggy hair, an untrimmed beard and travel-worn clothing. He finally begins to stir, blinking his eyes open until they focus on Enjolras.

"Oh," he says, his voice deep and rough. "Imagine that. Saved by a warlock."

"What?" Enjolras' eyes dart around to ensure that there's nobody else within earshot. Realising he's only confirmed the fact, his gaze snaps back to the man.

"I know things," the man explains with a shrug, like this is a trivial matter, rather than something that could endanger Enjolras' life. "Like the fact that you're named Enjolras, that you're travelling with your best friends and two more. I know that you're putting very serious thought into killing me here and now so that I don't expose you."

"I'm not—" Enjolras begins before realising in horror that he was thinking exactly that.

"It's alright," the man laughs, getting to his feet and making to dust himself off. "I'm a seer and you're a warlock. Trust me, it won't be the last time that you'll want to kill me."

"I don't kill people," Enjolras says in a fierce whisper.

"We both know what you are." The man shrugs. "Your handlers can only do so much."

"You're trying to provoke me," Enjolras growls. "Why? To prove a point?"

"Maybe." The man abruptly looks uninterested in their conversation. "Anyway, your friends have apparently secured a table near the fireplace inside, and there are hot meals on the way. Are you coming?"

Enjolras takes a long moment to calm himself back down before he goes inside. Just as the man had said, the others are sitting at a table right by the fireplace. They've reserved the seat nearest the fire for the stranger, no doubt by Joly's insistence. Their food has arrived and Enjolras walks towards the table just in time to see the man pull a coin purse from somewhere on his person, opening it and taking out several gold coins, paying for all of the bowls while ignoring the protests of the others. He smiles at them, slipping the coin purse back into his clothing just as quickly as he'd procured it.

"This is Grantaire," Joly says, as Enjolras sits down. "And he's much more generous than he needs to be."

"Really now," Grantaire laughs. "You're the ones who dragged my sorry self inside. I know I'm not particularly light."

He glances at Enjolras while he says this, raising his eyebrow. 

"I used magic," Enjolras replies, shrugging, because that itself is easy enough to confess. He's fine with owning up to using lower-level magic. It's just the more powerful spells that he does his best not to take any credit for. "Made it much easier."

"That explains why you were so quick to clean him up, too," Marius murmurs. "Of course."

"I thank you for your trouble," Grantaire says, raising his cup to Enjolras. "Magical or otherwise, I appreciate it."

Enjolras looks away from Grantaire. "Thank Joly. He's the one who wanted to bring you inside."

" _Thank you_ , Joly," Grantaire says warmly, bumping their shoulders together as they're sitting side by side. "You're a saint. Or, well… I suppose the gods would disagree."

"Seer," Marius explains, looking at Enjolras. "He took one look at Joly and knew exactly what happened to him. He did the same to me."

"Like I said," Grantaire says, "I simply know things. What has happened, what is happening, what will happen. I've learned that most people aren't very thankful when I tell them exactly what their future holds."

Again, he looks at Enjolras. Combeferre catches it, his eyebrows drawing together. Enjolras shakes his head in a small, subtle motion. He'll need to talk to Combeferre and Courfeyrac later. Possibly so that they can talk him down from wanting to kill Grantaire again.

As if he can read Enjolras' mind, Grantaire smiles. 

"Let's eat," Enjolras says, louder than necessary. "Wouldn't want our food to go cold, now. Especially not when Grantaire was generous enough to pay for all of our meals."

The frown doesn't quite leave Combeferre's face. He knows Enjolras well enough that he must know that there's _something_ wrong and whatever it is, it has to do with Grantaire. There's no way of talking about it right now, though, and at least Enjolras can tell that Grantaire hasn't made any attempts to compromise his true identity just yet. If Grantaire had even tried, he knows that Combeferre and Courfeyrac would step in. They might both be mild in comparison to Enjolras, but Enjolras' temper is like the storm that had raged the previous night. Little seems as bad as it truly is by comparison. 

To his credit, Grantaire gets along with both Joly and Marius incredibly well, managing to break them out of their shells with just as much ease as Courfeyrac had previously, even if his methods are entirely different. He shares stories from his travels, especially the ones that are completely inappropriate for a table in the middle of a crowded tavern, and it startles laughter from both of them. Enjolras tries not to feel irritated when Courfeyrac laughs loudly too, or when he hears Combeferre stifle a snort of amusement. 

"I hope I'm not overstaying my welcome," Grantaire says, his gaze flicking to Enjolras before he turns to Joly and Marius. "I do have a tendency to do that."

"Not at all," Joly says, shaking his head. He turns to the others in the group. "He's not, is he?"

"Of course not," Courfeyrac replies, smiling warmly. He gives Enjolras an expectant look, and Grantaire looks at him once again.

Enjolras shakes his head. "You're fine to stay for as long as you need. I won't presume to tell you what to do."

Grantaire gives him a brief smile, nothing more than a slight quirk of his lips, and turns back to his conversation with Marius and Joly.

:·:

"What's wrong?" Combeferre asks, the moment that he and Courfeyrac are alone with Enjolras.

They've managed to get two rooms with three beds each, and it hadn't even been a question that Grantaire would share with Marius and Joly when the three of them were getting along so well. Even though Courfeyrac and Marius were equally close with each other, Courfeyrac preferred to stay with Combeferre and Enjolras, and it afforded them the privacy that they needed to talk amongst themselves. It's ridiculous just how pleased it makes Combeferre feel.

"It's Grantaire," Enjolras begins, and Courfeyrac snorts quietly.

"Yes, I think we could gather that much ourselves."

"Let me talk," Enjolras snaps. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. "Sorry. It's a little difficult for me to stay calm right now."

Courfeyrac reaches his hand out automatically with a questioning look. Enjolras shakes his head, pacing the room as he tries to gather his thoughts. 

"Grantaire knows that I'm a warlock," he says, and both Combeferre and Courfeyrac nod, neither of them particularly surprised. "From what I can gather, he seems to know everything about everyone. He… says that I'm going to eventually give into the warlock side of me, the part that I'm trying to control. He says that the two of you can only help me so much, and beyond that…"

"What does he know?" Combeferre scoffs.

"Everything, apparently," Enjolras says with a hollow laugh. "At least, that's what it seems like to me." 

"He doesn't know _everything_ ," Courfeyrac says. "As much as he said that he knows the past, present and future, he never said that he knows all of it, and he never said that it's set in stone." 

"I thought about killing him," Enjolras admits. "Earlier, when he'd just woken up and knew what I was. I thought to myself, I could kill him now and he would never be able to tell anyone."

Combeferre's eyes widen and he hates the twist of fear he feels in his gut. Enjolras is his _friend_. Combeferre loves him as a brother. As much as Enjolras may doubt himself, Combeferre steadfastly refuses to and he hates that the words of a stranger can make him do so now. 

"But you didn't," Combeferre speaks up, frowning. "You didn't kill him, you didn't even harm him. You helped him."

"But he knew I was thinking it," Enjolras says. "Even before I did. It was there at the back of my mind and he plucked it out and put it into words for me, and he told me that it won't be the last time I'll want to kill him and I don't know what to do with that, Combeferre, I don't know how I can make sure it doesn't happen."

"He doesn't have to join our group," Courfeyrac points out, but even he sounds reluctant about it.

Enjolras shakes his head. "We've already told him that he can stay. Besides, I have a feeling that even if we told him he couldn't come along with us, that wouldn't stop him."

"There's something more, though," Combeferre says, watching Enjolras carefully. "I don't quite know what, but there's _something_."

Enjolras nods, his frown deepening. "I can't tell what it is either, but there's something telling me that we need him to stay with us. I can tell you know that I would rather he didn't, but I don't want to be the kind of person who turns others away, and I until I can figure out _why_ I'm feeling this way, I think it might be best to keep him close by anyway."

"Besides," Courfeyrac adds, "you never know when it might come in handy to have someone who knows things without even having to go to the effort of finding out. It could definitely help us when we're crossing the border into the kingdom."

"True." Combeferre nods slowly. He looks over at Enjolras. "It's just a matter of making sure that he stays far enough away from you that he doesn't provoke you into doing something you would rather not do."

"Yes, if at all possible." Enjolras sighs, looking drained, and sits on the edge of his bed. "I don't remember the last time I've disliked someone so strongly from the moment they opened their mouth. It's unpleasant."

Combeferre laughs softly as Courfeyrac walks over to sit beside Enjolras, taking his hand. 

"Grantaire seems like a nice enough person—except for the part where he's trying to bait you," Courfeyrac says. "Perhaps he'll get bored of it when he realises that it's not working, and the you'll end up getting along with him too."

"Maybe," Enjolras says, but he doesn't sound particularly convinced. Combeferre doesn't think it's likely to happen any time soon either. 

"I don't want to think about him for now," Enjolras mutters. "Come on, let's fix up this room a little."

The three of them get up, pushing their beds together into the middle of the room so that it's one large bed that will fit all of them. They crowd together in the centre, limbs entangled, and for the first time since leaving the previous town after the rain, Combeferre feels completely safe and content. 

Enjolras is the first to fall asleep, tired from the magic that he's been using recently, and they tuck him in under the blankets, before Courfeyrac lies down beside Combeferre. 

"You're concerned about Grantaire," Courfeyrac murmurs, resting his chin on Combeferre's shoulder. 

Combeferre sighs heavily, wrapping his arm around Courfeyrac's torso. "I am. I don't know what's going to happen, what his presence means for Enjolras…"

"And you don't like not knowing things," Courfeyrac finishes. "I know. It's a little concerning."

"A _little_ ," Combeferre mutters, shaking his head. "Courfeyrac, when Enjolras was talking about how he was thinking about killing Grantaire, I was _afraid_. Do you remember the last time either of us were afraid of Enjolras?"

Courfeyrac hums unhappily, draping his arm over Combeferre's waist and holding on. "But nothing happened, right? And nothing is going to happen. We'll make sure of that." 

Combeferre rests their heads together, taking comfort in their proximity. "I know."

"You don't sound confident." 

"I don't _feel_ confident," Combeferre admits. "I hate it."

Courfeyrac presses a light kiss to Combeferre's temple. "Believe in us, Combeferre. We can do it." 

"I believe in _you_ ," Combeferre replies. "It's just me that I'm unsure of. If worse comes to worst, you can always hold onto Enjolras and force him to calm down. What can I do?"

"You can understand him just as well as I do, even though you don't have the same abilities that I do," Courfeyrac replies. "You're amazing, Combeferre. You can talk him down and he listens to you, he knows that you're taking care of him."

"What if one day, that isn't enough?" 

Courfeyrac laughs softly. "Listen to us. It's like we're parents and Enjolras is our child."

A strange warmth floods through Combeferre at the thought of them as parents. It's quickly gone, replaced by embarrassment. "I don't mean to imply that Enjolras is anything like a child. He's a grown man and he can make his own decisions."

"Exactly." Courfeyrac touches Combeferre's nose with the tip of his finger. "He's not a child, or some kind of loose cannon that will go off under some unknown circumstances. Despite what he might fear."

"How do you do that?" Combeferre asks quietly. "How do you unfalteringly believe that we'll be alright?"

"I have you," Courfeyrac replies with a simplicity that makes Combeferre's heart ache with a mixture of happiness and longing. "I have you with me, and we have Enjolras, and we've managed to get this far without any problems. I'm certain that we'll be just fine."

"Yeah," Combeferre says softly. "You're right. We're going to be fine." 

They fall asleep curled around each other, but when Combeferre wakes the next morning, Courfeyrac is gone. Enjolras is still fast asleep and Combeferre sits up, running a hand through his tousled hair in an attempt to make it sit flat as he looks around the room, trying to figure out what time it is. 

He conjures his magical sundial, glancing at the shadow cast across the surface. It's only an hour past sunrise, and while there are people walking around in the streets outside, it's still quiet. Combeferre glances at Enjolras, who hasn't moved from where he'd fallen asleep, and gets out of bed, getting dressed so that he can search for Courfeyrac.

It doesn't take him long. Courfeyrac is sitting downstairs at one of the tables, eating breakfast with Grantaire. They seem mid-conversation and one of the serving boys is putting a third plate down on the table as Combeferre walks towards them. 

"Expecting me?" Combeferre asks, indicating the plate. 

Grantaire smiles. "I thought that you might appreciate it if you didn't have to wait for your food."

"It's a little unsettling," Combeferre replies, sitting down. "But thank you."

"Courfeyrac was just asking me about myself," Grantaire says. "You're both very curious. I'm not much of a morning person, so I hope you appreciate the fact that I woke up early for you."

"Well, considering the fact that you were passed out for—how long?"

"Three days," Grantaire supplies. 

"I imagine you're well rested," Combeferre says. "I'm assuming that Courfeyrac has already asked you _why_ you were passed out for that long?"

"He did, but I only gave him half an answer while we were waiting for you to join us. Apparently, my body has a limit on how many mind-altering substances I can consume in a day. I hit that limit, three and a half days ago."

Combeferre frowns. "Mind-altering substances? Like wine?"

"That's the very least of it," Grantaire laughs. "If you know where to look, you can find all kinds of things that will take you away from reality, out of your body. It's just a matter of asking the right people the right questions."

"But why would you?" Courfeyrac asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Like I said," Grantaire replies. "They take you out of your body. I don't particularly like the one I've been given, if I'm being completely honest. It feels wrong. I feel like I'm constantly itching to get out of it and nothing I've tried has managed to rid me of that itch. Nothing really fixes it, so I've given up on trying to. The best I can do is make sure I'm not entirely sober at any given time. I've found that it makes life more tolerable in general."

Combeferre frowns. "Vices are trapping, though."

"Really?" Grantaire asks. "Am I any more trapped than the two of you, following your friend around and hoping that you can keep him under control? Don't you even just want a _break_ from Enjolras? Wait, I don't even need to ask. I know you do."

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange guilty looks, and Grantaire sighs at both of them.

"You're better than most people. I know for a fact that I wouldn't be able to do what you do."

"I don't really think we have a choice," Courfeyrac says quietly. "I love Enjolras dearly and I know that he would hate to lose control of himself. Besides, if he did… the implications are just not worth risking. I've read stories about… those kinds of people in the past. The ones who lost control. The amount of damage they've caused before being subdued is terrifying to think of."

"I doubt that this will put you at ease," Grantaire says, "But whatever glimpses you've seen of Enjolras' self control wavering is absolutely nothing compared to what he is capable of."

"Yes, thank you for that," Combeferre mutters. "We figured that was the case."

"But it's been nearly three centuries since the last big incident," Courfeyrac points out.

"Well, yes," Grantaire agrees. "But it's been nearly three centuries since they passed the law to execute people like Enjolras purely for existing. The two might be related."

"That can't be the only option," Combeferre says. "I refuse to believe that."

"Exactly." Courfeyrac bumps their shoulders together. "We're here for Enjolras. He's the most strong-willed individual I know. I believe in him."

"I hope that works out for you," Grantaire replies. "I think I'll say with you, if you don't mind. If Enjolras is going to lose control, you might need the advanced warning."

Combeferre nods. "Provided that you don't antagonise him into losing control? Fine. I don't think making him angry is in your best interests anyway."

"Making him angry is very different to setting off a power-hungry rampage, you know. Feeling emotion is healthy."

"If it's all the same to you," Combeferre says coolly, "I'd rather not take advice about what is healthy from someone who does their very best to avoid sobriety. And that's not even considering the fact that we found you passed out on the road."

Grantaire shrugs. "I think the fact that I'm still alive proves that I know what's good for me, but that's fine. Up to you."

Joly comes wandering downstairs and smiles when he sees them, walking over to join them. "Good morning. The three of you look much too serious for this time of day."

"We're taking breakfast very seriously," Grantaire replies with a grin, using a foot to push the chair beside him. "Come and sit. I'm buying breakfast."

"Where do you get all the gold from?" Joly asks, eyeing Grantaire's coin purse with wonder.

"Gambling is easy when you know everything," Grantaire replies with a wink. "Well, I guess it only works to a certain extent. I can't really tell what will happen if it relates to me, so it's not an exact art. But that only means that I lose often enough that I'm not very suspicious."

"That's… not very fair of you," Joly comments, raising an eyebrow.

"I was passed out in the rain for three days," Grantaire points out. "Nobody did anything about it until your group came along. I'm not overly inclined to putting the needs of other people over mine."

Joly nods slowly. "Fair enough."

Grantaire and Joly get into a discussion about what to eat, and Combeferre looks up, to where the stairs lead up to the rooms. He doesn't always keep a close monitor of Enjolras' magical energy and he doesn't quite mean to now. He knows that Grantaire is the reason for it, and supposes that it doesn't quite hurt to be cautious. Combeferre can tell that Enjolras is awake and based on the magical energy he's detecting, Enjolras is probably making sure that he looks presentable before coming downstairs. He doesn't usually take this long to get ready, though, and Combeferre knows that it's because Enjolras is gathering every last shred of patience he has so that he can deal with Grantaire. The fact that he's trying is reassuring.

Courfeyrac notices that Combeferre's attention is elsewhere and gives him a questioning look, brushing the backs of their hands together. He must sense Enjolras' magic too, because he glances up towards the stairs before returning his gaze to Combeferre. 

"Are we worried about how this is going to go?" Courfeyrac asks quietly, leaning towards Combeferre.

"I don't know," Combeferre admits. "I think Enjolras will behave himself. I can't speak for Grantaire, though."

"No, I can't quite predict what Grantaire will do." Courfeyrac frowns. "It worries me a little. But I suppose that if the need arises, we can always step in and calm Enjolras down?"

"True," Combeferre nods slowly. "I would just rather not have to do that for the entire duration that Grantaire is with us. I suppose we'll see soon enough."

When it all comes down to it, that's the only option they have. Combeferre doesn't like it, but their hands are tied. He's never put very much thought into what he and Courfeyrac do for Enjolras before. They'd chosen to stick with him and make sure to help him keep in control of himself whenever he needed it. Combeferre doesn't particularly believe that Enjolras has control over them, but he knows that he makes more concessions for Enjolras than he ever has for anybody else, Courfeyrac included. It's too late to feel bothered by it, when it's been this way for years, but Combeferre can't quite stop thinking about it either.

"Combeferre…" Courfeyrac begins, frowning.

"It's—I can't really say it's _nothing_ , but I don't really want to talk about it right now."

"Later, then," Courfeyrac decides with a small nod, just as Enjolras comes downstairs.

"Ah, you've finally joined us," Grantaire says loudly, indicating one of the chairs at their table. "Sit down and I'll get you some food."

"Thank you," Enjolras says and he might not be smiling, but he's _trying_ and that's all Combeferre can really hope for.

To Combeferre's relief, the rest of their breakfast continues without incident. Enjolras is quieter than usual to begin with, but the more certain he becomes that Grantaire won't try to bait him, the more he relaxes. Every now and then, Combeferre will catch Enjolras watching Grantaire with a curious look, like he's trying to understand him but can't quite figure out how to approach him.

"Thank you for breakfast," Enjolras says, once they're all done. "That's two meals that you've provided for us. Surely, that is enough. We can pay for our own food, I don't want you to feel as though you owe us anything." 

Grantaire leans back in his chair, lips quirked into a grin. "I didn't feel as though I owed you anything at all. Can't a person buy meals for their new friends without any ulterior motives? Or perhaps you don't understand the concept."

"Grantaire." It's Joly who speaks up, before Combeferre or Courfeyrac can. He looks as though he wants to take Grantaire's arm to take him aside, but balls his hands into fists instead. "Stop that." 

"But—" Grantaire begins, but he is cut off by the clatter of a bowl to the floor.

Everyone at the table turns in the direction of the sound and a woman is clutching her hands to her chest, staring at a figure in the doorway with horror.

" _It's a Death Omen_!"

:·:

The front room of the tavern is suddenly thrown into chaos, chair legs scraping against the wooden floor, cutlery and crockery clattering as people stagger away from the figure in the doorway.

They're of an avian appearance, with large feathered wings and a human body. Their face is masculine, a curved beak in the place of a mouth and nose, eyes a deep red with black pupils. He looks just like all the illustrations that Enjolras remembers seeing as a child, though he's not carrying a scythe. 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, grateful for the extra time he'd taken earlier to calm himself, and gathers his magic. He doubts that there's anything he can do against a Death Omen, but if they're here for either Combeferre or Courfeyrac, Enjolras is going to fight as hard as he can anyway.

The Omen scans the room, ignoring the panic. Enjolras supposes that he must be used to it. Then, the Omen looks at their table and those red eyes go wide. Enjolras stays where he is, as uneasy as he feels, and glances in Grantaire's direction. Surely, if Grantaire was a seer, he would have known that this would happen.

Grantaire looks relaxed, like none of this even bothers him, and Enjolras is irritated to realise that he can't tell whether or not this is a good thing.

"Take a deep breath, Enjolras," Grantaire says, meeting his eyes. "There's nothing to fear."

Enjolras nods, noticing at the back of his mind that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are gripping each other's hands so tightly that their knuckles are white.

The Omen walks to their table, gaze fixed on Joly, who looks terrified.

"It's you," the Omen breathes, almost reverent, stopping in front of him.

"M-Me?" Joly stammers.

"Yes." The Omen smiles and suddenly, he no longer looks as frightening. "You're the one Mother cursed. She told me all about you."

"She remembers me." Joly laughs nervously. "Always g-good to know I made an impression. Are you here to take me?"

"I… what?" The Omen's eyes go wide. "No! No, not at all, no. Please don't be afraid. Any of you. I'm not working right now."

"Death Omens get time off?" Joly asks and even though is voice is shaky, he manages a smile.

"Of course. Mother is kind to us and we are not always required. Only when something big is about to happen."

"Then it might be worth sticking around," Grantaire speaks up and the way he looks in Enjolras' direction makes his meaning clear. Enjolras is proud of himself for the way he doesn't lunge across the table and for Grantaire's throat.

"Oh!" Joly cries out in alarm as the Omen reaches for his hands. "No, don't—!"

"It's okay." The Omen's hands hover just over Joly's. They're similarly taloned but instead of being black, they're brown like the rest of his skin with dark grey feathers. "You won't hurt me, I promise. Technically speaking, I'm not actually alive."

"That's…" Joly blinks and cautiously touches a clawed finger to the Omen's hand, watching carefully for any signs of pain. When he sees none, he smiles brightly. " _Wonderful_. That's wonderful."

The Omen smiles. "I'm glad you think so. My name is Bossuet. Or Lesgles. Or…"

"Bossuet is a nice name," Joly says with a smile. "I'm Joly. This is Grantaire, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras."

"You don't mind if I sit with you?" Bossuet asks.

"Of course not," Grantaire replies, indicating the last chair at their table. "Please."

Enjolras' eyes narrow as he realises that Grantaire must have known that this was going to happen all along. He doesn't quite know how he feels about that. Some warning would have been nice but Enjolras suspects that they weren't given any on purpose. 

Bossuet sits beside Joly and they don't stop smiling at each other even once. It's a little unnerving, but when Enjolras glances over at Courfeyrac, there's a mix of happiness and amusement on his face. Enjolras relaxes immediately. Whatever is going on, he knows that if Courfeyrac thinks that it's a good thing, then it must be.

"So, where are you headed?" Bossuet asks them with a bright smile.

Enjolras exchanges glances with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, unsure of what to say.

With a quiet snort, Grantaire speaks up. "There's a town northwest of here that Enjolras and company are headed for. There's a particularly interesting magical signature calling them in that direction."

"Ooh, Enjolras, you never mentioned," Joly says, looking fascinated.

"Didn't he?" Grantaire smiles. "I had no idea."

Marius' eyebrows draw together, but he doesn't speak. Enjolras takes a deep breath to calm himself down but before he can explain himself, Combeferre clears his throat.

"Grantaire is right. There's something we detected just recently and I think it's worth investigating."

"Northwest," Marius says. "That's closer to the kingdom border."

"Actually," Courfeyrac speaks up, "We think that the magical signature is coming from _within_ the kingdom."

"You want to cross the border into the kingdom?" Marius asks, sounding panicked. "You want _us_ to cross the border into the kingdom?"

"We're not going to force you to go anywhere you don't want to," Courfeyrac says calmly. "Of course we're not going to do that. We're planning on travelling to the town closest to the border and we'll work everything out from there. If that's where we part ways, then so be it. We were just hoping you would stay with us until that period."

"I _was_ going to tell you today," Enjolras mutters, giving Grantaire a dark look. "I wasn't going to ask you to follow us blindly."

"Well, of course we'll come with you to the border," Joly speaks up, glancing at Marius and then Bossuet. "I mean, I'm happy to. I don't mean to speak on behalf of the others."

"I'll come," Bossuet says, "if you'll have me. As you've just seen, there are lots of people who would rather not be anywhere near a Death Omen, even if I'm not working at the time."

"You should definitely come," Grantaire laughs. "It's going to be _great_ with you around."

He doesn't even look at Enjolras for approval. It's nice for a change, but it also makes Enjolras bristle, then immediately feel ashamed of himself. Grantaire glances in Enjolras' direction with a smirk that says he knows exactly what he's doing and the effect he's having. Enjolras has never felt so trapped by anyone before, so powerless with the knowledge that he doesn't have the upper hand and probably never will. It's unpleasant but it's also new and different. Enjolras simultaneously wishes he could send Grantaire away and is glad to have him there, to give him some kind of balance.

"I'm not going anywhere near the border," Marius says firmly. "I'll come with you as far as the town and then no further."

"Of course," Courfeyrac replies. "We appreciate even that much."

"You want to leave soon," Grantaire says, looking directly at Enjolras, "but I promise you that it will be worth your while if you wait a little longer. Let Bossuet relax for a while. He hasn't had anything to eat yet."

"I don't actually need to eat," Bossuet speaks up, "but I'll be happy to sit down for a while. Joly, I would love to hear more about you."

"Really?" Joly gives him an embarrassed smile, his ears turning pink. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," Bossuet replies simply, resting his chin in his hand. "Tell me everything."

Joly laughs, blushing harder. Combeferre clears his throat, his jaw set. 

"If we're staying here a little longer, then I might just have a look around town. See if I can replenish our travel supplies. Or our finances."

"Leave the finances to me," Grantaire tells him. "It's the least I can do when I'm making Enjolras put serious thought into how hard he can hit someone without causing lasting damage."

"I am not," Enjolras snaps, guilt twisting in his stomach when he belatedly realises that he _was_. His frown deepens. "I'm not going to hurt you. As much as that seems to disappoint you."

"Well, you know." Grantaire winks at him. "People like all sorts of things. I'll try not to be heartbroken."

"Enjolras, you're coming with me," Combeferre announces, rising to his feet. He doesn't even look at Courfeyrac, which Enjolras thinks is odd. To make matters worse, Courfeyrac isn't giving him an expectant look and is avoiding his gaze entirely.

"Marius." Courfeyrac turns to him with a smile. "I know what we can do. You're coming with me."

The group breaks up to take care of their own matters, leaving Joly and Bossuet sitting at the table together. Grantaire slips off on his own and Enjolras doesn't have the opportunity to see where he's gone because he has to hurry to keep up with Combeferre.

"What's wrong?" Enjolras asks, once he catches up to Combeferre, a block away from the tavern.

"I don't know," Combeferre replies and then sighs quietly. "No, I do. I'm not sure that I want to talk about it just yet. Is that okay?"

"Are you angry with Courfeyrac?" Enjolras asks. "Because I thought I saw something odd before and I need to know if anything is happening between the two of you. I need you both."

"No, Enjolras." Combeferre laughs, but it's a harsh, angry sound that rarely comes from him. "Nothing is happening between Courfeyrac and I. Nothing at all. Just let me finish buying our supplies and perhaps we'll talk after that, okay? We have to travel through the woods between here and the town near the border. I want to make sure that we have everything we need. Food. Warmth."

"I can keep the skies clear," Enjolras offers. "Let me use my weather magic, Combeferre. It would make things much easier for us. We'll find a stream to camp by so we'll have enough water, to make up for the lack of rain."

Combeferre nods. "I don't see the harm in that."

Enjolras blinks, surprised. "You're not going to protest?"

"I'm not trying to control you when we both know that you can do that just fine on your own." Combeferre places a hand on his back. "It was never my intention to make you feel like you can't control yourself. I'm here if you need my support. Same with Courfeyrac. It's time we stopped treating you like a potion that just might explode without warning."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "Does this have anything to do with Grantaire?"

"More than I would like to admit," Combeferre replies. "It shouldn't have taken a complete stranger, no matter how omniscient he pretends to be, to make me realise that we've been doing this all wrong. I'm sorry, Enjolras. If we didn't treat you so damn _carefully_ , perhaps Grantaire's words wouldn't anger you as much as they do. All that he says to you are things you fear to be true. We should never have let you fear your potential in the first place."

"My potential could be terrible," Enjolras says uncertainly. "The worst case scenario…"

"Is only that, one possible outcome."

With a smile, Enjolras bumps their shoulders together. "But not a guarantee?"

"No. Never that. Come on, I want to take a look at the Apothecary."

Combeferre is efficient when shopping, because he knows exactly what they need. Most of the time, they take longer in shops to indulge Courfeyrac, who wants to look at everything before moving on. Without Courfeyrac, they finish everything much quicker, even if it isn't as enjoyable now that he isn't around to suggest that they buy all the strange and interesting things that they come across.

Then they go into a shop to buy a coat for Combeferre. He wants one longer than the one he currently owns, so that it will cover most of his body when they cross the border into the kingdom, just so he doesn't need to use his magic to disguise himself entirely. As they're looking around, Enjolras catches him looking at a pin made of a strange, blue glass that changes hues depending on the angle at which the light hits it. Enjolras immediately knows that Courfeyrac would love it and he opens his mouth to say as much, but then he sees Combeferre's expression and stops. 

There's something sad and longing in the way Combeferre runs his fingers along the edge of pin that makes Enjolras turn away and busy himself with a red coat that he likes. They meet outside the shop once they've made their purchases and go back to the tavern to drop off all the items they've bought. It's not until Enjolras sees a glimpse of blue among the coat that Combeferre is packing into his bag that it hits him.

"This is not a good place to talk," Enjolras says, then clears his throat. "Not about what we want to discuss."

The look that Combeferre gives him is frustratingly blank. "No, I suppose not. Shall we relocate?"

They find a small teahouse with an empty table at the back. Combeferre settles into his chair, both hands wrapped around his teacup, looking happy in a way that he hasn't since they walked out of the tavern that morning.

"It _is_ Courfeyrac," Enjolras says. "He's the reason you're upset. What has he done?"

"Nothing," Combeferre replies, lowering his teacup onto the table between them, looking down at it. "That's the problem, I suppose."

Enjolras frowns. "I don't understand."

"Enjolras, I love you the way I would love a brother," Combeferre explains. "But the way I feel for Courfeyrac…"

"Not brotherly?" Enjolras guesses.

Combeferre laughs, shaking his head. "Not brotherly at all. I… I'm…"

"You're in love with Courfeyrac."

"I'm so desperately in love with him," Combeferre replies, laughing unhappily and rubbing a hand over his face. "I've never said it aloud before. I'm in love with Courfeyrac. And he's a fae. He _knows_ that I love him, he knows every single time I feel a rush of affection for him, and he's done nothing about it. What does that tell you?"

"…Oh." Enjolras' heart sinks at the thought of Combeferre being in love with someone who doesn't love him in return. The thought of it being Courfeyrac is even worse.

"I'm not going to dump my problems on you, because you really don't need to be dragged into it. This is between Courfeyrac and myself, and I just wanted to explain myself to you. I don't mind if we never talk about this again."

Enjolras frowns. "I hate knowing that you're hurt, though."

"If I could stop loving him, I… no, I still don't think I would. But this must make him feel so awkward and I hate that the most. Every time I see people in a relationship with each other, I think of him and he must know. And then Joly and Bossuet made it look so easy and…" Combeferre sighs. "I just wish this wasn't so complicated."

"I wish it was easier for you too," Enjolras says sadly. "I'm sorry that it's not."

"Really not your fault," Combeferre replies. "Come on, you don't want your tea going cold."

When they return to the tavern afterwards, they run into Grantaire at the door. He raises an eyebrow at them with a grin. 

"Did you have a good talk?"

Without a second thought, Enjolras reaches out and grabs the front of Grantaire's shirt.

"Enjolras—!" Combeferre cries out in alarm.

"You stay completely out of Combeferre's business, do you understand?" Enjolras growls. "Bait me as much as you like, but you leave Combeferre alone."

"You're protective of your things, aren't you?" Grantaire asks, and Enjolras wants nothing more than to hit him, but Combeferre is already putting himself between them, forcing them apart.

"Enjolras, enough. Grantaire, you heed what he said and stay out of my business. I _will_ make you regret it otherwise. Inside, both of you." Combeferre keeps his hand firmly on Enjolras' shoulder, grounding him as they walk inside. 

"Combeferre? Enjolras?" Courfeyrac hurries over when he sees them. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," Combeferre replies. "Grantaire is being difficult."

"Do you need me to…?" Courfeyrac asks, reaching his hands out for Enjolras.

"I'll be fine," Enjolras replies, shaking his head. "Let's just go upstairs."

He's immensely grateful for the fact that Courfeyrac falls into step with them, the three of them going to their room. Enjolras shuts the door and presses his hands to his face, exhaling loudly.

"I don't understand why he's doing this. Does Grantaire want me to hate him? Does he hate me? Have I done something to offend him?"

"You haven't done anything," Combeferre tells him. "From where I stand, it seems that he woke up and immediately decided that he would do everything he could do make you angry."

"He called you my _thing_ ," Enjolras spits. "As if I think I own you. I don't. You're my friends, but you have no obligations to me."

"We know that," Courfeyrac says. "We're here because there's nowhere else we would rather be."

"Exactly," Combeferre agrees, and Enjolras sits down on the edge of their bed, immensely grateful for his friends.

"Distract me?" Enjolras asks. "Tell me something happy."

"I took Marius shopping for clothes today," Courfeyrac replies. "Because he doesn't have a lot, and his clothes are a little torn up from when he had to flee home. Just a simple pair of pants, a shirt and a waistcoat, but you should see how happy he is. I told him I was paying for everything and he turned as red as a tomato."

Enjolras smiles. "That was kind of you."

"I bought something for myself too," Courfeyrac continues. "Wait here, I'll show you."

He crosses the room to his bag and produces a hat. He sits it on his head with a grin. "What do you think?"

"It looks wonderful," Combeferre says with a smile, and Enjolras wonders how he managed to miss the fondness in his tone, in his expression, for all this time. 

Courfeyrac's smile grows even wider. "You like it?"

"It suits you. I know you've been wanting a hat like that for a long time, now."

"I _have_ ," Courfeyrac agrees. "And we went into this other shop that had the loveliest pin, but when I went back to buy it, they no longer had it. I was devastated."

"Oh," Combeferre says, immediately rising to his feet, but before he can say more, there's a knock on their door.

It's Joly, who pokes his head in with an apologetic smile. "Hope I'm not interrupting. It's just that Grantaire know that you won't appreciate _him_ interrupting right now, but he says that—ah, his words were that you really need to get the fuck down the street because there's a fight you don't want to miss."

Enjolras scowls. "A fight we don't want to miss? What does that even mean?"

"Come on." Courfeyrac looks intrigued, and that's enough to convince Enjolras. "Let's find out."

:·:

Courfeyrac leads the way downstairs, where Grantaire is waiting with Marius and Bossuet. He slows down as he approaches Grantaire, unsure whether it's a good idea to have him and Enjolras together in the same place.

"What's so special about this fight?" Enjolras asks, staying where he is behind Courfeyrac.

"You'll see when we get there," Grantaire replies. "Is everyone coming? Bossuet?"

"Not me." Bossuet shakes his head. "People don't react very well when I show up to fights."

Grantaire laughs. "Damn, but it would be so funny if you did."

"Lead the way," Enjolras speaks up. "Unless you want us to miss the fight entirely."

"Relax, Enjolras. A seer isn't late for things, it just doesn't work that way. The fight hasn't even broken out yet. We have plenty of time to stroll over."

"In that case, let's be on our way," Enjolras says, his voice clipped.

For a moment, Courfeyrac is afraid that Grantaire is going to say the wrong thing and Enjolras will start a fight of their own right here. Luckily for them, Grantaire doesn't push Enjolras any further and simply turns to the door. 

Their large group attracts some odd looks as they walk down the street and Courfeyrac marvels at the fact that over a handful of days, their small company of three has nearly tripled in size. The dynamic between Enjolras and Grantaire might not be ideal, but it's still a wonderful change to Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras keeping to themselves as they have for years. 

Courfeyrac knows that once they find the other warlock, Enjolras will want to go back to fighting for magical rights within the kingdom. Meeting so many people with varied magical abilities will benefit them and broaden their perspective. Even if they'll need to part ways with their new friends and the kingdom border, Courfeyrac is grateful for that much.

Grantaire walks through the streets like he knows them well, whether that be from his abilities or from experience before the rest of them showed up. Either way, he doesn't even pause to think as he turns down streets and alleys, towards a dim roar that resolves itself as a crowd shouting and cheering as they get closer.

There's a clearing with countless people standing around a group of men. There are five men fighting one and they're attacking him without pause, until he's staggering under the impact.

Courfeyrac reaches his hand out to the side without thought, startling when it comes in contact with another. He glances over, pleased to realise that Combeferre has had the same thought. They both block Enjolras from stepping forward and joining the fight, giving each other small smiles.

" _Come on_ ," the man roars, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that he's outnumbered. "Is that the best you can do? I thought you were going to teach me a lesson! What was it that you said? You're a lot better than a freak like me? Prove it!"

With a growl, Enjolras pushes against their arms. "Let me go."

"No," Grantaire says from beside Courfeyrac. "Your help won't be needed _or_ appreciated. Watch."

When they turn back to the fight, the man's skin shimmers with magic before he turns his body into stone.

"A skin-shifter," Combeferre breathes in amazement. "I've heard that they're rare."

He does much more damage when he swings his fists this time. He drops two of his attackers effortlessly and rounds on the remaining three. With another shimmer, his skin turns from rock to steel.

"Do you really want to test your luck?" he asks, grinning.

Two of his remaining attackers rush at him together and Courfeyrac flinches. A fist made of steel might just kill someone and the skin-shifter must realise it too because he grabs them instead of hitting them, and knocks their heads together. He advances on his last attacker, who shrieks and worms his way through the crowd to escape.

The crowd disperses quickly after that, leaving the skin-shifter and the unconscious men still lying in the street.

"Pathetic," he spits, picking the others up and sitting them up against a nearby wall. "I told you not to do anything stupid and you still decided you wanted a fight. Your leader's a coward, too. I can't believe you take orders from that guy."

"Um," Courfeyrac says, leaning towards Combeferre. "Is he talking to those four unconscious people?"

Enjolras clears his throat loudly and the skin-shifter turns around, frowning.

"What do you want? Are you here to pick a fight too?"

"Not at all," Enjolras replies. "We saw you fighting. I wouldn't want to find myself on the wrong side of those fists."

"What he means," Grantaire speaks up, "is that you're awesome and you should have a drink with us."

"Oh." The skin-shifter grins. "In that case, lead the way."

His name, it turns out, is Bahorel, and when he gets to the tavern and sees Bossuet, he laughs loudly.

"Hey, I know you. Long time, no see."

Bossuet laughs. "Oh, hello. If I knew that it was you everyone was going to see, I would have come along."

"You know each other?" Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow.

"We've met over the years," Bossuet replies. "Mostly in the kingdom. Bahorel has a tendency to show up at the same riots as I do when I'm working. Not that these two things have been related, so far."

"So far," Bahorel repeats with a wink. "So how about that drink, huh? Bossuet, I'm guessing you still don't drink—oh, who's that beside you? I've never seen an Omen like you before."

"I'm not an Omen," Joly replies. "Just cursed."

He says it casually, without even a hint of the pain that Courfeyrac could sense from him the first time. Bossuet has only been here for a matter of hours but he's already done wonders for Joly. That in itself is enough to make Courfeyrac hope that Bossuet stay for a while. He doesn't quite know how Death Omens work or how much downtime Bossuet has, but if their group needs to part ways with Joly at the kingdom border, Courfeyrac hopes that Bossuet remains with him.

"Cursed?" Bahorel pulls up a chair and sits opposite Joly. "Now that's a story I want to hear."

"We don't have the time for this," Enjolras mutters from beside Courfeyrac, quiet enough that only he can hear. "We need to get going."

"We can afford to wait a few more minutes," Courfeyrac replies. "The magical signature hasn't changed once since Combeferre and I picked up on it. I don't think they're going anywhere soon. We'll reach them."

Enjolras frowns, but doesn't push any further. He doesn't need to say a word for Courfeyrac to know just how impatient he feels. When he offers his hand, however, Enjolras simply shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest. Courfeyrac doesn't quite know what it is that has made Enjolras so determined to control his own emotions, but he suspects that Combeferre has something to do with it. He smiles to himself at the thought. Between the two of them, Courfeyrac might be the better at dealing with most people, but Combeferre always knows the right thing to say to Enjolras. It's what makes him so indispensable as a companion. That and several other things that Courfeyrac tries not to dwell on for too long right now.

Luckily for all of them, it doesn't take long at all for Bahorel to get through his drink or for Joly to get through the story of how he was cursed. Unlike the first time he'd told the story to them when they'd first met, he no longer feels the need for secrecy, beyond lowering his voice just a little more than normal. He looks relaxed, comfortable, and Bossuet gazes at him adoringly the entire time.

"Wait a second," Bahorel speaks up, turning to Bossuet. "I thought, as an Omen, you wouldn't really be condoning necromancy."

"Oh, I definitely don't when it's done for power," Bossuet replies. "What Joly was trying to do is completely different. He was helping, or trying to. Mother always said that he looked so earnest when she went to him. She was offended by his magic, but also incredibly charmed. I can see why."

Joly ducks his head with a smile. "I'm just glad that She doesn't hate me as much as I thought She did."

"You don't seem like a very easy man to hate," Bahorel says, finishing the last drops in his glass. "Okay, so where are you all headed? And do you mind if I come along? I would stay here but so far, I've only been landing myself in trouble because people don't _get_ skin-shifters. I guess it's not their fault when we're not all that common, but it's annoying either way. None of you have decided I'm a freak so far, which means I stay happy and you stay conscious. It works out for everyone."

Grantaire grins. "We already figured that you'd be coming along. Isn't that right, Enjolras?"

Enjolras doesn't reply immediately and Courfeyrac frowns, looking over at him. For a long moment, he just stands there, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Oddly enough, Courfeyrac doesn't sense the anger from him that he expects. 

"You have a plan," he finally says. It's not a question and Enjolras gives Grantaire an appraising look, folding his arms across his chest.

Grantaire simply smiles in reply, bowing his head. "Shall we?"

Enjolras turns to the rest of the group and nods. "Let's gather our bags and be on our way."

"So we're going towards the kingdom," Bahorel says as they walk. He cracks his knuckles with a smile. "I had a lot of fun last time I was there." 

Bossuet snorts quietly. "That's one way of putting it. I saw him knock out three guardsmen in one blow one time. It was terrifying and amazing."

"Then why does the kingdom keep _winning_?" Enjolras asks, with a hint of frustration. "There must be more people like you, like _us_ who are willing to fight and do what it takes. Why is it that every protest that has been held only ends in the imprisonment and slaughter of our fellow magic-users?"

"It's because we're outnumbered." Bahorel shrugs. "Always have been, always will be. There aren't a lot of people in the kingdom who are willing to fight against the royal guard, knowing how it's going to end for them. Even out of the ones who do choose to fight… well, most of them have lived in the kingdom their entire lives. You came from there, didn't you? You should know how difficult it is to use magic without being noticed. Not being able to use magic regularly means that people can't develop whatever magical abilities they might have. It's hard to fight people off with weak magic. It's hard to even manage to intimidate them and the guards all know it. That's part of the kingdom's plan, I think. They don't mean to cut magic off so much as slowly suffocate it out of existence." 

This time, Courfeyrac feels a bright, bold flare of anger from Enjolras. "We can't let them do that." 

"No," Bahorel agrees. "We definitely can't. That's why I join the protests when I can. Make sure it's not a complete loss. Save lives where I can. Not enough, though. Never enough."

"You do well," Bossuet replies. "In death, all lives are the same, but Mother is always much happier to receive less dead when She knows that those with magical abilities are under attack."

"The Gods have opinions about the kingdom's laws against magic?" Enjolras asks surprised.

Bossuet chuckles. "The Gods have opinions about a great many things." 

"Don't imagine that they'd be very happy to know that their brother is losing his power," Grantaire muses. 

"Brother?" Enjolras asks, frowning.

"The God of Magic, of course." Grantaire looks at them, raising an eyebrow at their blank expressions. "Don't tell me you don't know about the God of Magic."

"I wasn't even aware that there was one," Enjolras says quietly. 

"Well, yes." Bossuet nods. "That's the majority of the problem right there."

"Did you know?" Courfeyrac asks, turning to Combeferre. Most of the time, even if he and Enjolras have managed to miss something, it doesn't escape Combeferre's notice but even he looks surprised, slowly shaking his head in reply. 

"His temples were destroyed centuries ago," Grantaire tells them. "Each of the Gods have their own chosen beings walking the earth. Death has her Omens. It was Magic who made the warlocks."

Enjolras flinches. "Did He?"

"I thought," Marius says slowly, looking at Enjolras, "that warlocks were uncontrollable madmen."

"No, nothing like that," Bossuet shakes his head. "They've lost contact with their Father as His power weakens. Mother is always so apologetic to Him when she receives one of them in Her halls." 

"What happens to them?" Enjolras asks, his voice strained. "When they die?"

"He takes them back," Bossuet replies. "Rebuilds. Recreates. Perhaps He sends them back to the living hoping that one of them will help Him regain His previous glory."

"Oh," Enjolras says softly.

Courfeyrac exchanges glances with Combeferre, but now is not a good time to talk about it, and they both know that taking Enjolras aside now will only make things more suspicious. 

"But they're not madmen?" Marius asks. 

"They weren't intended to be," Grantaire replies. "It's just that they've gone for so long without contact with their creator that has left them unstable. I imagine that with each turn of the wheel, each time they're sent back, they become a little more unstable until they are the dangerous creatures that they are now." 

"Are there any temples left?" Combeferre asks, with just the right amount of detachment to make it look like he's just idly curious.

"None," Grantaire replies. "They were all destroyed. Within the kingdom and in the surrounding areas outside of it too. The kingdom did their very best to scratch him out of existence entirely. There are few who know of his existence at all any more."

"Well, we can work on changing that, can't we?" Bahorel asks. "That could be helpful, for people who try to fight in the future. Knowing that their efforts aren't all for nothing. Knowing that there's a God out there, no matter how weak He might be right now, who is on their side." 

"Yes," Enjolras agrees. "I find the prospect cheering, myself."

Grantaire snorts quietly, but he doesn't say anything. Courfeyrac frowns, walking beside Enjolras as Combeferre does the same on his other side. 

"I have hope," Enjolras says quietly, so only the two of them can hear him. "I've always had hope."

"Yes," Combeferre agrees, placing his hand on Enjolras' back with a small smile. "This is good information to have. I'm sorry I didn't know." 

"Not your fault," Courfeyrac murmurs, reaching up to touch Combeferre's hand. He feels the familiar warmth of _hope-happiness-affection-love_ and withdraws his hand as quickly as possible without making it obvious. Judging by the sad look that briefly crosses Combeferre's face, he isn't very successful. 

"I think we can change the kingdom," Bahorel says loudly. "If we can find more people with magic, if we can spread the word about the God of Magic."

"If we can give people hope," Enjolras adds, nodding in agreement. "Definitely. I think we can do this."

"Hope will only get you so far," Grantaire points out. 

"Maybe," Enjolras agrees, "but I believe that we can get ourselves the rest of the way." 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "Do you really?" 

"Yes," Enjolras replies firmly, although Courfeyrac can sense flickers of doubt. "I believe we'll get there."

"Alright then," Grantaire nods. "I'll believe it when I see it. Get us there."

:·:

The woods between the previous town and the next are large and while there is a trade route through them to carry supplies between the two, there are few people who travel through otherwise. They were initially planted to separate the kingdom from the rest of the land, and Combeferre has heard that the prevailing theory is that the magic-users who fled the kingdom centuries ago planted the trees, made them grow wild and unruly and difficult to traverse. Looking at them, with the curved, thorny branches and the brambles that line the cleared path, Combeferre is very much inclined to believe the theory.

Marius gives the trees a look of trepidation and Combeferre thinks of him, scared and alone, running through them to escape his family. He feels sorry for Marius, and Courfeyrac is already at his side, rubbing his back comfortingly and giving him words of encouragement. Things are different this time around, and there is no danger that they cannot take care of. Combeferre is glad for the fact that they are travelling in a large group, for the fact that it makes their passage even safer. 

"It's been a long time since we've been this close to the kingdom," Enjolras murmurs.

"I remember going through these woods with you and Courfeyrac," Combeferre replies. He smiles to himself. "I remember you cutting your own path through the woods with your magic and sheer force of will, because all you wanted to do was get to the other side." 

"It closed up behind us," Enjolras replies, nodding. "I didn't _cut_ my way through. That implies that I did damage."

"Of course, of course." Combeferre touches Enjolras' shoulder in a silent apology. "You only persuaded the plants to move aside for you. No big deal."

"Well, when you put it like that…" Enjolras smiles. "It didn't feel like anything special at the time. All I was thinking about was how much I wanted to be on the other side of the woods, so I got us there."

"Imagine what you could do," Combeferre says, "purely because you _want to_." 

"Are you encouraging me, Combeferre?" Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"I am," Combeferre replies, ashamed for the fact that Enjolras is actually surprised by this. "You believe in everybody else. I believe in you. I always have, and I promise that I will do all that I can to make sure that you can use your magic without fear."

"Just think, Combeferre," Enjolras murmurs. "There's a _God of Magic_ out there, who made me. Who might have made me for the express purpose of bringing magic back to the kingdom. Do you think the other warlock might know about this? Do you think that they could help me?"

Combeferre smiles warmly. "We'll find out soon enough. I believe so, yes. I doubt that there's a single person in the world who you wouldn't be able to talk around." 

"Well…" Enjolras glances over some distance away, where Grantaire is walking with Bossuet, Joly and Bahorel. 

"That's different," Combeferre dismisses, shaking his head. "Personally, I don't believe that what Grantaire says aligns with what Grantaire thinks." 

"Really?" Enjolras frowns. "He's a _Seer_."

"And there are several things he doesn't know," Combeferre replies. "I've noticed that he doesn't know very much when it comes to Bossuet. And I get the feeling that there are things he knows that he forgets that we don't. I suppose it would be confusing, to know so much and then be around people who don't even know half as much."

"I feel that he's pushing us towards something, but I'm not quite sure what it is." Enjolras glances over at Grantaire again. "I doubt that he would tell me, even if I asked."

"Well, have you tried asking?" Combeferre nudges Enjolras. "It's worth a try. See if you can find something in the non-answers that he gives you."

Enjolras grins. "Is that how you always know so much?"

"I pay attention," Combeferre replies. "It always helps to pay attention. Most of what people tell you won't be said with words." 

"What do you know about Grantaire, then?" 

"I can tell that he interests you more than you're willing to admit to anyone," Combeferre points out with a small smile. "Not that I'm particularly surprised by this, he is infuriating and secretive. Especially when it comes to you. I'm intrigued myself."

"If it were anyone but you," Enjolras replies, "I would try denying that. But I suppose there's no point."

"None at all," Combeferre agrees. "As for Grantaire himself, I think he prepares himself for the worst of any situation rather than hoping for the best." 

"Do you think that he's doing that from experience?" 

"Maybe," Combeferre says, just as Joly cries out in distress. 

They both look over, to find Joly backing away from Grantaire, who is grinning despite the pained look on his face. Bossuet, who is standing between them, looks murderous and terrifying, feathers bristling, taloned hands held out on either side, looking just like the most frightening illustrations of Death Omens Combeferre has seen. 

"Stop doing that!" Joly cries, holding his hands to his chest and curling in on himself. 

"Oh, come on," Grantaire laughs a little shakily. "It's not that big a deal."

"Not that big a deal—Grantaire, I don't want to hurt you, stop _making me_!"

"What's happening?" Combeferre asks, walking over to them with Enjolras at his side.

"It's Grantaire," Joly says, his eyes shining with tears. "We'll be walking and then as soon as I've relaxed, he'll brush his hand against mine."

"To hurt himself?" Enjolras asks, frowning as he turns to Grantaire. "Why?"

"Told you," Grantaire says, but he's looking at Combeferre instead of Enjolras. "I'm not particularly happy in this body." 

"So what are you trying to do?" Enjolras asks, "Claw your way out of this one?"

"If that works," Grantaire replies with a shrug. 

"It won't," Bossuet snaps. "Whatever you're trying to do, stop pulling Joly into it, stop _hurting_ him because of it. I might not be working right now, Grantaire, but if you don't stop what you're doing, I promise you that will change." 

Grantaire laughs quietly, but it's an ugly, unhappy sound. "Okay. Sure. I understand. Sorry, Joly."

Joly shakes his head and manages a shaky smile. "Just don't do it again and we'll be fine."

"I won't," Grantaire replies. He turns to Bossuet this time. "I promise, I won't."

"Good." Bossuet replies. He slowly relaxes, though he's still frowning. "I like you, Grantaire, and I'd like to get along with you. Which we will, provided you stop using Joly as a way of causing pain to yourself."

"Right." Grantaire nods. "Sure. Understood."

"We'll pause for a while," Combeferre decides, looking around. They've reached the closest thing to a clearing that they're going to find in these woods and Marius is looking a little tired, leaning against a tree with Courfeyrac beside him. "If that's alright with everyone? There's a stream nearby, if any of you need water."

Marius nods gratefully and the group as a whole relaxes a little. Grantaire gives Joly another apologetic smile.

"I'd offer to shake hands and put this whole thing behind us," Grantaire says, "but that probably won't help."

Joly laughs quietly. "No, it wouldn't. But yes, I agree. We'll put it behind us."

"I'll get some water from the stream," Courfeyrac speaks up. "Combeferre, are you coming?"

"Of course." Combeferre smiles, collecting their canteens. 

The sound of running water automatically makes Combeferre relax and he sighs quietly as they get closer to it. 

"You're turning green," Courfeyrac murmurs, smiling. "You're happy."

Combeferre smiles in reply. He's near water, and with Courfeyrac. With two of his favourite things together, it's impossible _not_ to be happy. 

They fill the canteens and Combeferre crouches at the edge of the bank for a moment, dipping his hands into the cool water. 

"Maybe after we get the canteens back, we can go swimming," Courfeyrac suggests. "We haven't been swimming for a while."

"I would like that." 

Courfeyrac smiles fondly at him, reaching out to stroke his hair. "You look much more relaxed now than you did a day ago. I'm glad." 

Combeferre leans into the touch with a quiet hum. "So do you." 

"I imagine Enjolras is happy to know about the God of Magic," Courfeyrac muses. 

"Very happy," Combeferre agrees, getting to his feet. He pulls Courfeyrac into his arms, holding him close. "It's kind of you to be walking with Marius and taking care of him. I don't imagine this place holds very good memories for him."

"He's braver than you think," Courfeyrac murmurs, resting his head on Combeferre's shoulder. His words are warm breath on Combeferre's neck. "I won't deny that he's afraid, but he's doing all that he can to overcome it."

"Mm, with your help?"

"I'm not helping him as much as he might think I am," Courfeyrac replies. "What he needs is to get through the woods and realise he did most of it on his own."

"You are so wonderful," Combeferre tells him. "Marius is lucky to have you. I'm lucky to have you,"

Courfeyrac beams, tightening his grip on Combeferre. "And I'm lucky to have you. Shall we head back?"

"I suppose so," Combeferre replies, picking all of the canteens up before they return to the clearing.

They're almost there when they hear a loud shriek that sounds a lot like Bahorel. They run the rest of the way, to find the rest of their group staring in shock as a tree slowly removes its roots from the ground. Upon closer inspection, the tree looks humanoid, with two legs, its roots flat against the ground like feet, a torso, two arms and a head. 

"Oh," the tree says softly, leaning over Bahorel. "I didn't mean to startle you. It's just been such a long time since I've felt bark against my own." 

Bahorel, whose skin has shifted into bark, presumably when he first touched the tree, gets back to his feet. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be weird, I just have this habit of trying out different textures when I come across them."

"No need to be sorry," the tree replies, reaching out and touching Bahorel's hand with a smile. "It was pleasant. My name is Jehan."

"You're a dryad," Bahorel realises. "I just shifted into dryad-skin. Weird." 

"Weird?" Jehan asks. "Bad weird?"

"No, just… different. I don't usually touch other people and try to shift my skin into theirs. I never would have considered doing that before."

"You did well," Jehan tells him. "You feel like a dryad."

"Do I?" Bahorel asks, grinning. "That's pretty awesome."

"Awesome," Jehan repeats, touching Bahorel's cheek. "Do you mind if I stay with you? I've been here for a long time, watching over the woods. It gets a little lonely being a tree."

"Of course," Bahorel replies. "I mean—you guys don't mind if he stays, right? _He_ stays? _She_ stays? Jehan, are you…?"

"I'm a tree," Jehan replies, laughing softly. "I'm neither." 

"Do you mind if they stay with us?" Bahorel asks, looking at the others.

"Of course not!" Courfeyrac speaks up with a smile. "It would be great to have you join us, Jehan."

Jehan fits into their group without a problem. They get along with everyone easily, and barely leave Bahorel's side. They take each other's hands at some point and then simply don't let go as the group sits down and rests, slowly shuffling closer to each other until Jehan is sitting on Bahorel's lap, their bark-covered fingers interlaced. 

Combeferre tries not to look at them, because Bahorel and Jehan have come together even easier than Joly and Bossuet. He hates the jealousy eating away at him, he hates the way Courfeyrac keeps glancing in his direction, clearly picking up on his emotions and no doubt understanding just why. 

"I think I might go for a dip in the river," Combeferre speaks up, getting to his feet. "If anyone would like to join me, you're welcome, but the water is a little cold."

"I'm not particularly good at swimming," Marius says, waving him off.

"I'm happy being dry and warm," Joly replies, and Bossuet nods in agreement. 

Courfeyrac gets to his feet. "I'll come with you."

Combeferre tenses, knowing that now is not a good time to be alone with Courfeyrac. He nods, because he has no other option, and they walk in silence. The best that Combeferre can hope for is that they don't talk about it, just as they've never talked about it. Courfeyrac is aware of his feelings, that much is certain. They've managed to go this long without Courfeyrac bringing it up and Combeferre desperately hopes that Courfeyrac will be kind enough to let that continue. 

When they get to the riverbank, Courfeyrac stops and clears his throat. Combeferre sighs quietly and supposes that it was worth hoping for anyway. 

"Combeferre? I think we need to talk."

"Do we?" Combeferre asks neutrally.

"I can't ignore this," Courfeyrac says with a heavy sigh. "Not when it's happened twice in as many days. I can _feel_ it, you know. I know you're angry."

"Not at you," Combeferre replies softly.

Courfeyrac gives him a sad smile. "We both know that's not true."

"It's not your fault, Courfeyrac. I'm sorry I can't control the way I feel and I'm sorry that you have to pick up on it when you don't feel the same."

"Wait, what?" Courfeyrac frowns. 

"It's not your fault that I—well," Combeferre shrugs, not wanting to put it into words, especially now. "It can't be helped that you don't return my feelings. I have you as one of my two closest friends in the entire world and I really can't complain about that—"

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac interrupts, "I'm in love with you."

"Oh." Combeferre's eyes widen. He smiles, just briefly, before he frowns. "Wait, then why did you never say anything? You know that I love you too."

Courfeyrac shakes his head. "That's my influence. Every time we've held hands and I've thought of how much I love you…"

"No," Combeferre replies, surprised at how calm he sounds. "No, you didn't make me fall in love with you. I always have." 

"And I've always loved _you_ ," Courfeyrac says desperately. "Are we really going to compare notes to see who loved the other first?"

"If we have to," Combeferre says, " _yes_." 

Courfeyrac lets out a broken laugh. "I can't do this, Combeferre. I feel guilty enough every time I sense your love for me. I feel so horribly selfish."

"You didn't do this to me," Combeferre says, taking a step towards Courfeyrac, who steps back. "Don't try to tell me that you understand my feelings better than I do, Courfeyrac, _do not_ do that to me."

"I can't do this," Courfeyrac repeats, his voice shaky, his eyes wet. "Please, Combeferre."

"I love you, and nothing is going to change that," Combeferre says, and the jealousy he'd felt towards Bahorel and Jehan fades away, along with the desperation and everything else, until there's nothing but anger left. "You can try. Is that what you want to do? Do you want to take my hand and make me stop loving you, to settle your guilty conscience? Do you think that's even going to do anything?" 

"I don't want you to wake up to yourself somewhere down the track and realise that you wouldn't be where you are if not for my influence," Courfeyrac whispers. "I don't want you to resent me for it."

"I love you," Combeferre repeats. "Being with you makes me feel the way I do when I'm submerged in a lake and I can feel every ripple, every splash. This is _real_ , Courfeyrac, please believe me."

Courfeyrac shakes his head. "This was a bad idea. I should just go."

"Courfeyrac, don't—" Combeferre begins, but he's already turning away and returning to the camp. Combeferre stands by the river, alone, mouth still open, anger warring with heartbreak until he's just left exhausted. 

With a heavy sigh, he turns to the stream and steps into it, not bothering to undress, simply ducking his head under the surface and letting the water drown everything else out.

:·:

Enjolras is already prepared for the worst when Courfeyrac returns to their clearing alone and sits down beside him without a word. Bahorel continues telling a story from one of the protests he'd attended without missing a beat, and Enjolras appreciates it because he knows that Courfeyrac wouldn't welcome the attention right now. He just sits there silently, leaning into Enjolras' side and listening to the story without a word.

When Combeferre returns, he's wet from head to toe and his clothes are soaked, dripping as he walks. Enjolras automatically raises a hand to send a spell in his direction to dry him off, but Combeferre shakes his head.

"I'd rather stay wet for a while, if that's alright," he says quietly, not looking at anyone else but Enjolras. "The water makes me happy."

"Here I thought you turned green when you were happy," Grantaire speaks up. "You're looking pretty blue to me."

"Not now, Grantaire," Enjolras mutters, and before he even thinks about it, he sends a spell in Grantaire's direction. 

He doesn't even realise what he's done until Grantaire tries to speak and ends up gaping at him, unable to make a sound.

"Shit," Enjolras mutters, as Bahorel and Bossuet burst out laughing. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I'll fix it."

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Enjolras takes note of the fact that both Marius and Jehan are watching him, careful and considering. Joly looks torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to help, but Enjolras takes care of it himself, undoing the spell just as easily as he cast it.

Grantaire clears his throat and laughs, shaking his head at Enjolras. "You certainly are defensive when it comes to your things, aren't you?"

"If you don't shut your mouth," Combeferre snaps, "I have a spell that will ensure that you never open it again."

Everyone stares at Combeferre in stunned silence and Grantaire shuts his mouth with an audible click. Enjolras has rarely seen Combeferre angry and has absolutely no idea how to deal with it. Most of the time, he would just leave it to Courfeyrac, but he doubts that it would help this time.

"So, do we need to rest for longer, or can we continue on our way?" Combeferre asks the group. "Personally, I would like to get to the next town sooner rather than later."

"I can help you with that," Jehan says. "I know the fastest way through the woods. The trees are always shifting their positions in here, to make it difficult for people to get through unless they mean no harm."

"I had no idea," Combeferre speaks up, his sharp tone fading into curiosity. "That's fascinating. How do the trees move? Are they all dryads as well?"

"No, but there are a few of us in here," Jehan replies. "We're all spread out in case we need to take care of things. These woods are entirely magical by nature anyway. They move on their own, slowly enough that people don't notice. Quicker when there's nobody to see, and considering travellers don't come through the woods too often…"

"Marius had a difficult time getting through the woods," Courfeyrac points out. "He meant no harm."

"He was being chased," Jehan replies. "Not just by the dogs that were set on him, either. There were people after him and it was better than the woods were difficult for anyone to get through than make his passage easy and make him easier to chase. I know that it might not have felt like it at the time, but the woods were helping you as much as they could. We look out for our own."

Marius nods with a small smile. "I appreciate it."

Even with Jehan leading the way, it takes a while to get through the woods. It feels even longer to Enjolras because Combeferre is doing everything in his power to avoid Courfeyrac. They both walk on either side of Enjolras, but do not speak. Despite the fact that Bahorel and Grantaire are loudly exchanging stories from their travels, the silence between Combeferre and Courfeyrac still feels heavy.

When they camp for the night, Courfeyrac sets his bedroll out beside Marius. Combeferre watches him go silently and turns to his own bag with a quiet sigh.

"Talk to him," Enjolras mutters.

Combeferre snorts softly and shakes his head. There's very little point in trying to reason with Combeferre when he's being stubborn. Enjolras' shoulders slump and he turns his attention to Jehan, who is currently speaking to the trees, asking them to move closer together to provide shelter for the group. At least, Jehan calls it speaking. They sound like they are singing, their soft voice turned otherworldly. 

Around them, the trees are shifting closer, branches winding around each other and closing the gaps between them until they're mostly protected from the wind. Marius raises a hand and green balls of light float into the air, illuminating their makeshift shelter. 

"Excellent idea, Marius," Jehan murmurs, looking around with a smile. "They're beautiful."

"This whole thing is beautiful," Bahorel says, breathless and reverent. " _You're_ beautiful."

They reach for each other's hands and Combeferre turns away, going back to unpacking his own bedroll. If not for the fact that Enjolras knows that easy displays of affection make Combeferre jealous, he doubts that he would have noticed. The same goes for the way he notices Courfeyrac turn his head in Combeferre's direction before turning away. 

Enjolras finds it difficult to sleep that night, because it's the first time in a very, very long time that he's slept without having both Combeferre and Courfeyrac within easy reach. He lies awake, staring at the balls of light that Marius conjured, dimmer than they were before so that the others can sleep. He hears Combeferre shuffling restlessly throughout the night beside him and sighs quietly to himself, trying not to be afraid of what might happen if his friends don't make up with each other.

He's exhausted the next morning, and so are both Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They continue to walk in silence, however, and everything feels just that little bit worse than it did yesterday. Enjolras is glad when they leave the woods and see the next town in the distance. 

Jehan pauses at the very edge of the trees, glancing behind them. "I've never left the woods before."

"I'll be here," Bahorel tells them. He hasn't shifted his skin from the bark from when he'd first met Jehan. "I'll be right here with you."

Jehan smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to Bahorel's cheek. "Let's go."

Grantaire takes the lead on their way to the town and it's clear that he has some kind of plan, though Enjolras doubts that he would explain himself if asked. They walk past two large taverns and Grantaire doesn't even glance at them. Enjolras is about to begin protesting when Grantaire finally comes to a halt in front of an inn. It's a small building, not looking even half as welcoming as the others. 

"Trust me," Grantaire says.

"I really don't," Enjolras replies, but follows him through the door anyway. 

It looks better on the inside than it does on the outside, but that's really not saying very much. There's one long table in the middle of the main room, a modest kitchen and an old woman standing by the fireplace, rubbing her hands together.

"Oh, hello, are you after rooms?"

"Yes," Enjolras says uncertainly, "but this place seems small, and our group is large…"

"Not a problem, dear, all of our rooms are free. Nobody's staying here."

Enjolras frowns, turning to Combeferre. For his part, Combeferre doesn't look particularly bothered by the fact that they're in what just might be the most disreputable inn of the town. Courfeyrac doesn't seem to mind it very much either when Enjolras glances in his direction. If the two of them are refusing to talk or even look at each other and still manage to be in agreement, Enjolras doubts that he has very much to be concerned about.

"We'll stay, then," Enjolras decides.

"Wonderful," the old woman replies with a smile. "Just come this way."

She leads the way to the stairs, but just as Enjolras is about to follow her, a sudden movement from the corner of his eye catches his attention.

There's a portal in the middle of the room, long and oval, and a tall man with hair the colour of fire steps out of it. 

"Oh," the man says, pausing with one foot out of the portal. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all, Feuilly," the old woman tells him. "We have guests. I'm showing them to their rooms. I'll be back down shortly, breakfast is nearly ready."

"Hey," Grantaire speaks up. "Feuilly, was it? What have you got in your hands there?"

Feuilly freezes, then finally steps all the way through the portal and closes it behind him. "It's a spell book."

"And correct me if I'm wrong," Grantaire says, "it's just that I have a pretty good memory for places, and I thought I saw an alley from the east side of the kingdom through that portal. Did you come from there? With a spell book?"

Feuilly gives Grantaire a wary look. "Well, it looks like I did."

"To save us all some time," Combeferre interrupts, clearing his throat. "This is Grantaire, he's a seer, and he's not asking you any questions that he doesn't already have an answer to. For the sake of the rest of us, Grantaire, maybe you'd like to get to your point?"

"Touchy, touchy. I liked you better when you weren't heartbroken." Grantaire looks directly at Courfeyrac before looking back to Feuilly. "Being able to create portals and travel across long distances in the blink of an eye, now _that_ is a very nice trick. I think your kind would be nearly as rare as skin-shifters like Bahorel. I guess if you could travel anywhere you wanted and knew your destinations well enough to go unnoticed, smuggling seems like an obvious choice."

"You're a smuggler?" Enjolras asks, with one hand fisted in the back of Combeferre's jacket to stop him from lunging at Grantaire. "You're smuggling spell books out of the kingdom?"

"Well, I'm smuggling them _in_ first," Feuilly replies. "Can't leave them there and run the risk of the wrong people finding them, though. Most of the people I smuggle the books to will read them during the night and I'll collect them in the morning."

"That's amazing," Enjolras breathes. 

"It's satisfying," Feuilly replies with a shrug, like the praise makes him feel uncomfortable. "I like the thought of undermining the laws of the kingdom and giving people with magic an opportunity to explore their power."

"Yeah, but how much of a difference are you actually making?" Bahorel speaks up. "Even if you let them read up, they're not going to have the opportunity to actually practice any of it. You need to tear down the current laws and rebuild, to make it safe for people to actually _use_ their magic."

"You're the skin-shifter," Feuilly says, looking at him. "Bahorel, right? I've heard of you, I've heard of the riots you've started, the people that have been thrown into prison after being caught at those riots."

"I don't _start_ them," Bahorel replies defensively. "I join in. I protect people that need protecting."

"Fighting isn't going to help anyone, education will." 

"Sure, if you _teach them how to fight_." Bahorel folds his arms across his chest. "Do you want to go? I'll show you just how important it is to know how to fight."

In an instant, Feuilly is gone, only to reappear behind Bahorel, an arm hooked around his throat. "No. I'll show _you_ the importance of knowing what you're up against. What you're capable of and what _they're_ capable of. Or not capable of, as the case may be."

Bahorel shoves him off, turning around with a growl, his skin shifting into granite.

"You're not going to intimidate me," Feuilly tells him evenly. "And you're not going to start a fight in this inn, the poor place is barely standing up as it is."

"You'll be in a better mood once you've had something to eat," the old woman tells Bahorel with a kind smile. "Go and put your bags down, and I'll finish making breakfast. There's enough to share."

Bahorel pushes past Feuilly on his way to the stairs, his skin shifting back to wood as Jehan reaches for him. Enjolras watches them for a moment, marvelling at the way Bahorel can alternate between being intimidating and gentle in a matter of seconds. Enjolras looks over at Feuilly, to find him watching Bahorel and Jehan as well, an unreadable expression in his eyes. 

"Come on," Combeferre murmurs, placing a hand on Enjolras' shoulder and pulling him along. 

They're the last to make it upstairs and there's one room left, with Courfeyrac standing outside of it.

Combeferre takes a long look at him and simply says, "No."

"Combeferre, please," Enjolras says, and it's his turn to reach for Combeferre's shoulder, holding him where he is. "I don't know what happened, or what was said, but can we please be friends? I need you both."

"I thought he would have told you what happened," Courfeyrac says to Enjolras.

Combeferre huffs quietly, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm surprised you didn't hear it from _him_."

"Well," Enjolras says hopefully, "perhaps the three of us can sit down and talk about it together?"

Without pausing for thought and speaking in unison, Combeferre and Courfeyrac both reply, " _No_."

Enjolras sighs heavily, but both of his friends walk into the room without any further protests. He'll take whatever victories he can.

:·:

Courfeyrac hates this. He hates the fact that Combeferre is angry with him, hates the fact that he can _still_ feel Combeferre's love for him, just as strong as it ever was. Courfeyrac isn't an idiot and he knows how his magic works. He knows this just means that while Combeferre might be frustrated, it doesn't compare to his affection for Courfeyrac, but that's something he doesn't want to think about right now. Not when he doesn't know how to get his head around it. He still doesn't know if the love came from him in the first place and thinking about it for too long makes his head hurt, makes his heart ache, and knowing that Combeferre is angry at him doesn't feel much better.

He's distracted all through breakfast, but makes his best effort to pay attention. Enjolras has clearly taken a liking to Feuilly and wants to hear all about his smuggling work. Feuilly shares their goal of someday making the kingdom a place where magic users can be free to be themselves without fear of persecution. Amazingly enough, he's also the first person other than Combeferre to plainly tell Enjolras that he's wrong without offending him.

"The best solution that you have is to amass an army of magic users and storm the capital," Feuilly says, "and I can tell you now that it's not going to work. You're going to have a hard enough time finding enough people to make an army out of, especially within the kingdom. I honestly doubt whether people from the free lands would want to involve themselves in matters of the kingdom when they can live out here beyond the border in peace."

"So we'll find people within the kingdom to fight," Enjolras replies.

Feuilly shakes his head. "The only problem with that is while they're the ones most likely to fight for their freedom, most of them are also not going to be able to fight. From what I've heard, you only really spent your childhood within the kingdom and even then, it was in a richer area, with parents who had no idea about your abilities. As an orphan who grew up on the streets, I can tell you now that the majority of the kingdom is very different to what you might think."

"What's it like?" Enjolras asks. "What are people really facing?"

"People are afraid to even _mention_ magic in the streets. Depending on the area, the guards will pay people for turning others in. I've seen—and hidden from—more witch hunts than I dare count. Even those who use magic in secret treat people with suspicion. The magical community is fractured, with few people who feel safe enough to actually develop the magical skills that they have and even fewer of them trusting others." Feuilly sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "The only time that they really come together is for the protests, and even those are broken up and end in even more pain. It's sad to see."

"I've seen people protect each other at protests," Bahorel says with a scowl. "I've seen people make friends, I've seen people use magic in the open for the first time ever."

"So then you've seen how weak their magic is, and how quickly they're stopped," Feuilly replies. 

Bahorel growls with frustration. Enjolras frowns down at his food, eating while he thinks.

It's Grantaire who breaks the silence, leaning back in his chair with a quiet laugh. "Come on now, Feuilly, don't sell yourself short. You saw the problem and you started working to solve it. That's worth mentioning."

Feuilly's cheeks turn pink. "I don't really think it's necessary."

"Oh, for the Gods' sake," Grantaire shakes his head. "You need to take credit where it's due. While Feuilly smuggles magical artefacts into the kingdom, he also shares it around with different people. He has different bases set up within the kingdom where people know him, where he knows it's safe enough to teach people himself."

"You're bringing the magical community together," Enjolras exclaims, sitting up straighter in his seat. "Feuilly, that's _wonderful_! With all the people you bring together and with the skills that you teach them…"

"I'm not going to make my students become soldiers," Feuilly says warily.

"No, of course not. We don't mean to force anyone to do anything. But if they had the opportunity to use everything they've learned to make the kingdom a better place, for themselves and for others like them, wouldn't they take the chance? Wouldn't _you_?"

Feuilly gives Enjolras a long, considering look, and hums in thought. "You want to get into the kingdom."

"Yes, I do. _We_ do. We're staying here for the night to rest, and then we're going to continue walking to the kingdom border."

"Well…" Feuilly begins, then pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts. "I don't know how much he'd appreciate this, but there's an innkeeper that I can introduce you to. Part of my smuggling network, so you'll be safe there. Travelling by portal to the heart of the kingdom is probably quicker than walking, if you're up for it."

Enjolras' eyes widen. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. Provided you let me join your cause." Feuilly smiles. "You're right. I don't think I would pass up the opportunity to fight for our freedom, and you make a very good point. I don't think anyone would."

"Unless they were afraid of being outnumbered," Grantaire points out.

"Then we'll address that," Enjolras says. "We'll make sure that we _aren't_ outnumbered. I can go with Feuilly and meet the others he knows, if that helps. See if I can talk them around."

"It's worth a try," Feuilly agrees. "It's much better than sitting here and hoping for a better world. I might not be able to take all of you at once, but we should manage it in three trips. I'm ready when you are."

"You're not going anywhere until you've finished breakfast," the old woman tells them all, in a voice that brooks no argument.

"After breakfast, then?" Enjolras asks with a smile. 

Courfeyrac turns to Marius with a sad smile. "I guess we're parting ways sooner than expected, then."

Marius chews on his lips as he thinks. "…Or I could come with you. If Feuilly can get people into the kingdom without having to go past the guards at the border, and if he can get people out of the kingdom just as fast…"

"I can," Feuilly replies with a smile. "You don't need to worry, Marius. You'll be kept safe if you're with us."

"Then I'll come," Marius decides. Courfeyrac sighs with relief, and Marius smiles at him. 

They finish their food quickly, thrumming with excitement at the prospect of getting closer to their goal. Being inside the kingdom means that it'll be easier to find the source of the magical signature too, and Courfeyrac is excited for Enjolras, especially with everything they've learned over the past few days.

When the time comes, they travel in groups. Feuilly can take three people with him at a time. Enjolras volunteers to go first, along with Combeferre. Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac with an expectant look and he sighs to himself. Courfeyrac can only avoid Combeferre for so long, and he knows that he really shouldn't avoid Enjolras as well. He walks over to them, trying and failing to make eye contact with Combeferre before turning to Enjolras with a small smile.

Enjolras reaches his hand out and Courfeyrac takes it, grateful for the gentle flow of warm, happy thoughts that he feels immediately. Then, when he pays more attention to them, he realises that Combeferre is in all of them. All of Enjolras' happy thoughts are about how much Combeferre loves both of them and Courfeyrac pulls his hand away gently with an apologetic smile. It's probably not intentional on Enjolras' part, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

"Okay, follow me," Feuilly tells them, opening a portal with a wave of his arm. He steps forward, with Enjolras following close behind.

The inn on the other side of the portal looks like it's in much better condition than the one they're currently in. Stepping through the portal feels like stepping through a door and after the initial disorientation as his senses struggle to catch up to what he's experienced, Courfeyrac looks around the main room of a completely different inn and laughs in wonder.

"Valjean," Feuilly greets a man who is walking towards them. "I have a few friends who needed my help entering the kingdom. I'll be back with more. Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, this is the owner of the inn, M. Valjean."

"Pleased to meet you," Valjean says as Feuilly disappears. He gives Combeferre a curious look. "You're a water elemental?"

"Yes, I am." Combeferre offers his hand to shake. "Everyone in our group has some kind of magic."

"You're welcome here," Valjean tells them with a smile. "I run the inn with my daughter, Cosette."

A girl who looks close to their age walks into sight with a smile and Courfeyrac freezes up, feeling Combeferre do the same thing beside him.

"Combeferre—" he begins, turning to him.

"It's here," Combeferre replies. "We're exactly where we've been trying to get, all this time."

Valjean frowns with confusion, "I'm sorry…?"

"Ah, you've figured it out," Grantaire's voice comes from behind them. Courfeyrac turns around to see Grantaire smiling at Valjean and his daughter. "I was expecting you to take a little longer, considering how oblivious you seem to be in general."

Courfeyrac ignores Grantaire, turning to Enjolras. "This is the place we were looking for."

"The place with the magical signature?" Marius asks, as Feuilly reappears with him, Bahorel and Jehan. Bahorel and Feuilly look like they're ready to throw themselves at each other, and the only thing stopping them from doing so is the way Jehan quickly stands between the two of them. Marius gets a safe distance from them and looks around. "This is where you wanted to come all along?"

"Fortuitous, that," Grantaire muses with a grin.

Marius opens his mouth, but then he catches sight of Valjean's daughter and his eyes go wide. "Oh, hello."

She's smiling, looking at him with the same kind of wonderment. "Hello."

Valjean looks between his daughter and Marius with a frown. Courfeyrac can tell that he's growing uncomfortable, and that only becomes worse when Enjolras turns to Grantaire.

"You knew. You arranged everything to make sure that we would meet Feuilly, because you knew that he would bring us here. You knew what we would find here."

"And what would that be?" Valjean asks, clearly defensive now. He takes a step forward, to put himself between his daughter and the rest of them, and Courfeyrac can feel him gathering his magic, in case he needs to use it.

Enjolras is the first to speak, glancing around the room before clearing his throat. "We mean no harm to you, sir. Allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Enjolras, and I am a warlock. Just like you."

There's a stunned silence that falls over the room, and Courfeyrac clears his throat, speaking in a stage whisper. "It's his daughter."

Enjolras blinks with surprise, turning to her. "You?"

"Yes." She smiles. "My name is Cosette, and I'm the warlock, not my father. Feuilly, did you bring Enjolras here on purpose?"

"Perhaps," Feuilly replies with a sheepish grin. "I thought of a few places I could take the group to and decided that this was the best place for them. I thought that meeting another warlock might be good for you. He looked stable enough."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Grantaire tells him with a wink.

Enjolras doesn't even acknowledge Grantaire because he's so focused on Cosette. Courfeyrac can feel the excitement coming from both of them, like bright sparks, and it's infectious. He looks forward to seeing what will happen now that they've finally met. 

"We were searching for you," Enjolras tells her. "Combeferre and Courfeyrac realised there was another warlock out there because of the storm. I used to create storms like that too, when I wasn't completely in control of my weather magic."

"We were trying out a rain spell," Cosette explains. "I put a little too much of my magic into it and ended up with that big storm. I couldn't quite manage to make it stop. Did it fade away on its own or did you stop it?"

"I helped it along," Enjolras says, smiling warmly. "Please, tell me more. There's so much I want to know about you."

From behind them, Marius makes a pained noise. Courfeyrac glances in his direction and the yearning that comes from him feels unpleasantly familiar. Marius looks embarrassed by his own feelings, and Cosette's expression immediately softens when she looks at him.

"I'll sit down with you soon," she promises Enjolras. "But first…"

Marius perks up immediately, smiling as Cosette approaches him. Valjean looks like he wants nothing more than to step in between them, but he stays where he is. Courfeyrac holds his breath, waiting or the all too familiar mix of jealousy and love from Combeferre, wondering if there'll be any resentment among it this time. He feels absolutely nothing instead, and somehow that makes everything much worse.

Marius and Cosette walk over to a table to sit down with each other. Courfeyrac watches in amusement as Marius blushes bright red when Cosette reaches for his hand. Valjean resolutely faces the opposite direction, like he doesn't want to see and doesn't want to know.

"You," Bahorel growls, turning to Feuilly and grabbing a fistful of his shirt. "You're coming with me."

"Oh, no," Jehan says, and they're taller than both Bahorel and Feuilly. If it really comes down to it, they can stop the fight before it even begins.

Bahorel pulls Jehan close, whispering into their ear. Courfeyrac might not hear what Bahorel says, but he feels the sudden spike of excitement as Jehan grins at Feuilly. "Oh, _yes_. Definitely. Of course I'll come."

Feuilly raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. "Rooms are upstairs. Stairs are that way."

Bahorel drags Feuilly off in that direction, with Jehan following eagerly behind. Joly and Bossuet wait until they're gone before bursting out laughing.

"Subtle," Joly comments.

" _Incredibly_ subtle," Bossuet agrees. "Nobody would be able to guess that they're all going to be screwing each other's brains out. Absolutely nobody."

Courfeyrac snorts quietly and this is ridiculous, _he's_ feeling jealous now. Combeferre and Enjolras have their heads bowed together as they talk seriously, across the room. Combeferre's back is turned to Courfeyrac and it's horrible that in the space of a single day, they can fall apart so badly. Right now, Courfeyrac doesn't even feel like he'd be welcome if he walked over to them and joined their conversation.

"You're an idiot," Grantaire tells him casually, walking over to his side. "Seriously. Such a big idiot that it actually baffles me, how one person can be so clever and so stupid at the same time."

"Thanks, Grantaire. You always know exactly what to say." 

"Oh, but I really do, don't I?" Grantaire grimaces. "Do you know how difficult it is to constantly resist the urge to say the one _exact_ thing that will make things fall into place? You have absolutely no idea how frustrating it is to know so much, to get both sides of the one story and know how it should end, how it can get there, and have to keep your mouth shut."

"Yes," Courfeyrac mutters, "I can definitely see how much trouble you have with keeping your mouth shut."

"Listen to me," Grantaire tells him. "It's not often that I want people to take me seriously and it's even rarer that I _ask_ them to. You're careful about your powers because you respect people's free will, and I sure as hell respect that, but the one thing I've noticed about you and your two friends over there is that you're all too afraid for your own good. You're afraid of Enjolras, you're afraid of his potential, you're afraid of your own potential. You're so caught up in the feedback loop of your emotions, of _Combeferre's_ emotions, that you're just going around and around in circles. It's called a _loop_ for a reason, Courfeyrac. There's no beginning and there's no end, but you're searching for one anyway. You're making yourself miserable, you're making Combeferre miserable, and you need to stop being so afraid. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."

"What do you see?" Courfeyrac asks, narrowing his eyes.

"I see that you've got two options," Grantaire replies. "You can be happy or you can stay miserable, and it's entirely up to you. And that's far too much seriousness for me. I'm going to go and see what Valjean has to drink in his cellar."

"But, wait…" Courfeyrac begins, but Grantaire is already gone.

:·:

Their morning is a strange one and even though Feuilly has promised them al that Valjean's inn is a safe place, Combeferre finds that he can't quite relax. All it would take is for one person to walk through the door and discover them. Bossuet would be able to get away with the fact that he's a Death Omen and he could probably lie pretty convincingly about Joly being one too. When it comes to Combeferre, or Jehan, or Bahorel, however, it's an entirely different matter. They clearly don't look human and when Combeferre voices his concerns to Valjean, he gets a warm laugh in reply.

"Cosette and Feuilly have worked together to create a false entrance to this place. From the outside, it looks like an old bookshop. When people enter, they think they're looking at a small shop with incredibly slack staff. It's magic beyond my understanding, but Cosette told me that she used Feuilly's portal magic to create some kind of pocket dimension, and that's where our front door leads."

"A pocket dimension," Combeferre repeats, amazed. "That's incredibly complex magic. You just let her use her magic whenever she wants? Aren't you worried about her using too much and losing control?"

"No," Valjean replies simply. "Of course, there are accidents like that storm she created a few days ago, but that's just a matter of understanding how much magic a spell needs. New magic is difficult for anyone."

"But…" Combeferre frowns. "You know the widely held belief about warlocks."

"I do," Valjean nods, "but a long time ago, I was taught the importance of the Gods and all that they do. I've learned about them and have raised Cosette to respect them too. I've raised her knowing that she is an agent of the God of Magic, and that her gift is not to be feared."

Combeferre nods slowly. "We didn't know about the God of Magic until just recently. I'm afraid that as far as Enjolras goes, the damage has already been done. We've spent our entire lives being very careful about his use of magic. I feel that we've done more harm than good."

Valjean smiles at him kindly. "You've been travelling out in the open for years. You did what you needed to so that nobody would realise that Enjolras was a warlock. You were protecting him."

"That is a much better way of looking at it," Combeferre muses. "Thank you."

Valjean nods, then rises to his feet. "I think you're wanted. I'll leave you to it. It was good to speak with you."

Combeferre nods as Valjean leaves, then turns around. Courfeyrac is standing there, shoulders drawn together to make himself look as small as possible. He approaches Combeferre slowly, sitting down beside him.

Combeferre says nothing and after watching him for a moment, Courfeyrac clears his throat. "Hi. I owe you an apology."

"Oh, are we speaking again?" Combeferre asks, raising an eyebrow.

Courfeyrac frowns. "You were the one who stopped talking to me."

"And you're the one who decided that you weren't going to sleep beside me and Enjolras."

"Well, that was because—" Courfeyrac cuts himself off and sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm not here to argue with you, Combeferre. I'm here to apologise."

"And what are you apologising for?"

" _Everything_ ," Courfeyrac says unhappily. "I'm sorry that I let my paranoia come between us. I'm sorry that I upset you. I'm sorry that I presumed to know your emotions better than you do."

Combeferre nods. "Good."

Courfeyrac waits, and Combeferre sighs quietly. "Courfeyrac, I love you, and I'm glad you understand where we went wrong, but I'm still angry at you. That's not going to change just because you apologised to me."

"I know," Courfeyrac says quietly. "I know that. I hurt you."

Combeferre nods. "You really did."

Normally, Courfeyrac would take Combeferre's hand into his own, to soothe the pain and replace it with something more pleasant. But then again, Courfeyrac isn't normally the one to hurt Combeferre in the first place. He draws in on himself even further, hands clasping each other tightly and resting on the table, clearly keeping them to himself. 

"I'm sorry. It's just that I think about you—about you loving me, and it makes me feel wonderful, makes me feel _ecstatic_ but then it terrifies me, it makes me doubt that I'm even worth your—your…"

"My love," Combeferre finishes for him. "Why is that so difficult for you to say?"

Courfeyrac shakes his head, looking upset. Combeferre immediately wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. 

"Courfeyrac," he says quietly, but doesn't push.

"It's just something I think about sometimes. Fae feel what _everyone_ around them feels, when it's strong enough. I'm afraid that I'm going to lose your love somewhere in the rush of everything else, that I'm going to stop feeling it because it's familiar to me and—"

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre says again, and places his hand on the table in front of them, palm facing up. 

He waits, not moving at all as Courfeyrac hesitates, and then slowly presses their palms together. 

"Do you feel that?" Combeferre asks, and he _loves_. He thinks of how important Courfeyrac is to him, about how much he needs Courfeyrac in his life, until Courfeyrac's breath hitches. 

"Yes." 

"Do you feel it even when we don't hold hands?" Combeferre asks, not letting go of Courfeyrac's hand. "When I can't stop thinking about how much I love you and you end up picking up on it?"

Courfeyrac nods mutely, his eyes shining, his lips pressed together. 

"Then you're not going to become desensitised to it," Combeferre promises him. "Not if you can feel it after _years_ of me being in love with you. It's not going to happen."

Courfeyrac nods, and Combeferre kisses his forehead. He can't be angry when he knows that this is where Courfeyrac is coming from. Courfeyrac leans into it and Combeferre smiles. He brings his free hand up to cup Courfeyrac's cheek, kissing his lips this time, feeling them curved upwards, smiling against his. It's quiet and understated, like it's simply the next logical step in their relationship.

Of course, Grantaire picks that moment to whistle loudly at them from across the room.

They both glance over their shoulders at him, laughing quietly before turning back to each other. Courfeyrac's grip on Combeferre's hand tightens and he smiles, looking incredibly happy.

"You love me," he murmurs, like it's a revelation, like it's the best thing to have ever happened to him.

"I do," Combeferre replies fondly. "I love you a lot."

Courfeyrac leans into him, resting their foreheads against each other. "I love you too."

Almost immediately, it feels like the mood of the entire group shifts. Combeferre can see the way that everyone relaxes and it's amazing, he thinks, that even those who don't know them very well have picked up on just how strange it is for him to be fighting with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras walks into the room, mid-conversation with Cosette about having to control the amount of magic he uses to avoid giving himself away as a warlock when travelling, and stops as soon as he sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac sitting with their arms around each other. He sighs with relief, loud enough that everyone can hear. 

"I'm glad you've worked yourselves out," he says to them, walking over and placing his hands on their shoulders.

"Sounds like you were having a good chat with Cosette," Courfeyrac murmurs, shuffling over to make space so that Enjolras can sit down beside him. 

"We definitely were," Cosette replies, walking over to join them. "It's amazing that even though we're both warlocks, there is such a big difference in what we've experienced."

"And we've both had it much better than most of the magic users in the kingdom," Enjolras adds. "I can't stand the thought of all of those people out there who _could_ be comfortable with who they are, comfortable with what they're capable of, but hide it out of fear instead."

"I know," Combeferre says gently. "We'll change things. We'll get there."

"I'm tired of waiting," Enjolras decides. "We have Feuilly's smuggling network and all of his connections to magic users in the kingdom, as we were discussing earlier. We have _two_ warlocks. I'm certain that between Cosette and myself, we could make sure that everyone is safe."

"Oh, are we planning?" Jehan asks, walking over with both Bahorel and Feuilly in tow, all three of them looking far too pleased with themselves. "I can help. I'll send word to the dryads and see if we can provide some kind of reinforcement."

"That would be _awesome_ ," Bahorel says. 

"I can spread the word throughout my network," Feuilly says.

"Okay, the first thing we'll need is a map," Combeferre decides, conjuring one with a wave of his hand and spreading it out over the table. 

"I'll mark out the main parts of my network," Feuilly says, pointing his finger at different locations on the map, leaving blue circles behind. "And these red marks are the best locations I've found for my portals."

Valjean walks over, accompanied by Marius, looking at the map. "What's this?"

"We're fighting for our kind," Cosette replies with a smile. "We're encouraging people to fight for their freedom."

For a moment, Valjean looks like he's going to protest. Instead, he joins them at the table. "How can I help?"

When they all come together, it becomes clear just how much they've all thought of this. They combine all of their half-formed ideas into something bigger, better, feeding off each other's enthusiasm until they're all discussing and debating their support for the various possibilities. Only Grantaire hangs back, watching them rather than adding his own suggestions. Joly and Bossuet occasionally give their input, but sit with Grantaire so that he's not entirely alone, the three of them drinking wine together.

"Why don't you join in, Grantaire?" Combeferre asks, turning to him. "As a seer, I imagine your input would be quite useful."

"I can't see anything," Grantaire replies, and he sounds shaken by the fact. "Absolutely nothing."

"Perhaps because there are so many possible outcomes," Courfeyrac suggests.

"Or perhaps I see nothing for a much more practical reason," Grantaire replies. "Perhaps I'll die. Perhaps we all will."

Enjolras pauses his conversation with Feuilly to look over at Grantaire. "We all know that this is going to be dangerous, and I'm not going to try to deny the fact that we all run the very real risk of being injured—being _killed_ —if we're not careful. That's why we need to make sure that this plan is as cohesive as possible. Everybody needs to play their part. _Everyone_ , Grantaire."

"Alright," Grantaire sighs, knocking back the remaining wine in his cup before walking over to the table. "Show me what you have planned."

They spend the entire afternoon planning and continue late into the night. Feuilly goes to spread the word, Jehan sends a message to their fellow dryads, and throughout the entire thing, Combeferre and Courfeyrac keep finding each other's hands, holding on and glancing at each other in between planning. There's a warm certainty in Courfeyrac's expression now, like all of his doubt is gone. Combeferre silently promises himself that he'll never give Courfeyrac a reason to doubt his love again. 

They finally decide to go to bed when half of them are falling asleep at their table, between sheets with their plans scribbled down onto them. Grantaire had been the first to pass out, after drinking his way through more wine than should have been possible. Enjolras is asleep with his arms folded on the table and his head resting on them. Combeferre gets a blanket from Valjean and covers Enjolras with it, then does the same to the rest of their sleeping friends, before turning to Courfeyrac. 

"We can sleep upstairs, in a proper bed, if you'd like."

Courfeyrac smiles sleepily, reaching for Combeferre's hand. "I'd like that." 

The room that they'd claimed with Enjolras is a small one and the beds haven't been pushed together yet because they hadn't gotten around to it before. Instead of bothering to do so now, Combeferre simply picks a bed and pulls Courfeyrac over with him.

"Will we both fit?" Courfeyrac asks between yawns.

"We'll manage," Combeferre replies, his arms coming around Courfeyrac to make sure he doesn't fall out of the bed. 

They end up with their arms and legs entwined, their heads touching as they share the pillow.

"I'm so happy," Courfeyrac murmurs with a smile.

"I know that," Combeferre replies, lifting their joined hands to his mouth, to kiss them. "I'm happy too."

"And I'm excited," Courfeyrac continues, "about our plans. After thinking about it for so long, we're finally going to do it. Do you think we'll win?"

"Of course we will," Combeferre replies, then yawns. "We have Enjolras, and Cosette, and you, and Feuilly, and…"

"And all of us," Courfeyrac finishes for him. "Go to sleep, Combeferre. I love you."

"Love you," Combeferre mumbles, letting his heavy eyelids slide shut. "Love you more than anything."

:·:

Enjolras wakes up to find Grantaire standing at the table, poring over the map still spread out across the surface. Grantaire must have noticed him lifting his head, but doesn't acknowledge Enjolras at all, tracing lines on the map with his index finger and muttering to himself so quietly that he barely makes a sound at all.

There's a strange look in Grantaire's eyes, both hopeful and sad, and Enjolras doesn't think that he's seen Grantaire look quite so vulnerable in the few days that they've known each other. It doesn't escape his notice that the only reason he's seeing it now is because Grantaire is allowing him to, studiously ignoring him.

An entire life of doing his best to make sure his magic goes unnoticed, and Enjolras still doesn't like being ignored. He clears his throat and sits up properly, stretching. "You're up early."

"I had trouble sleeping," Grantaire replies, smiling at him. "Thought that I might as well see if I could make sense of your map."

"And?" Enjolras asks. "Could you?"

"More or less. I must admit that I like your plan of putting up barricades and advancing on the castle. Boxing them in is very clever, as long as they don't end up doing it to you first."

"They can't," Enjolras points out. "Not when we have portal magic on our side."

Grantaire doesn't look particularly pleased with that answer but then again, he doesn't look particularly pleased at all. "I can't see a thing, as far as this fight of yours goes. Not even the slightest inkling of what might happen. It's unnerving, Enjolras, and I don't know what to make of it. I might not know as much as I pretend to, but I've never been completely in the dark like this before."

Enjolras hums in thought. "Well, what are the limitations of what you can see?"

"The rules are strange," Grantaire tells him, sitting down opposite Enjolras. "I suppose that calling them _rules_ at all is pushing it. I know things with no real constraints on where it happens, or when it happens. As you can tell, I know absolutely nothing that relates to Bossuet, but I don't really know why that is. Perhaps because he's too closely linked to the Goddess of Death and to know things about him would be like knowing things about Her. I don't know anything about myself, either. The more closely it relates to me, the harder it is for me to see it. I suppose that makes sense, because otherwise it would be a very quick way for seers to go mad. There is a lot about myself that I simply don't know, either because I drank it out of my mind, or because I never knew it in the first place and have no way of finding out."

"Like what?" Enjolras asks, but Grantaire simply shrugs, and Enjolras knows he won't get an answer. 

The lapse into silence, and Grantaire goes back to tracing his finger on the map, following plans that the group had discussed last night. The main attack will be on the castle, but the plan is to divide the royal capital into sections, barricading them off from each other so that they can conquer the capital bit by bit and block the flow of reinforcements. Feuilly is still out, as he'd taken it upon himself to find the right people to lead the fight in all of the different sections. Enjolras trusts his judgement and knows that he'll find the right people. If anyone from their group is able to, he knows that it would be Feuilly. 

Grantaire sighs heavily and looks up at Enjolras. He doesn't speak, but Enjolras can tell that he's gathering his thoughts, and waits.

"Don't die," Grantaire tells him bluntly, and it throws Enjolras enough that he doesn't have the chance to reply before Grantaire continues. "Please don't die, or succumb to the beast you've learned to fear inside you. This fight is about destroying what currently exists. They'll need you to rebuild."

"I… don't intend to die," Enjolras replies. "Not at this fight, anyway."

"I need you to promise me one thing," Grantaire says. "Can you do that?"

"Depends on what it is."

Grantaire smiles sadly. "Promise me that when the fighting begins and we've claimed enough of the capital to force the king to surrender, you're not the one giving him that order."

Enjolras frowns. "Why not? This entire battle is happening because I'm the one pushing for it. If I'm not standing in front of the throne to finally win the fight, what will the people think of me?"

"They'll think you can delegate, Enjolras, I don't know." Grantaire shakes his head. "Combeferre is the most level-headed—"

"It's like you didn't see that he and Courfeyrac avoided each other for an entire day because they were pining for each other," Enjolras mutters.

"Well that's… Courfeyrac. He's allowed a weakness, or two." Grantaire chews on his lip as he thinks. "I think that in a situation like this, he'd be the one best suited to it."

"Or better than me, at least," Enjolras says, with an unpleasant prickle of jealousy.

"Same thing, as far as this goes," Grantaire replies. 

"Can I ask why?" Enjolras asks, doing his very best not to feel offended.

"How do you think you would respond, when being put in a position of such power that the life of the king and the fate of the entire kingdom rests in your hands?"

The very thought sends a jolt through Enjolras and he feels thrilled and terrified all at once. "Oh."

"Oh," Grantaire agrees with a nod. "You could risk it, if you wanted."

"I won't," Enjolras decides. "Combeferre can take care of it."

"What is Combeferre taking care of this time?" Combeferre asks, as he descends the stairs with Courfeyrac behind him.

"Making the king surrender once we've established control over most of the capital," Enjolras replies. "You know, nothing special."

"You want me to do that?" Combeferre frowns, looking unsure of himself.

"There is nobody I can think of who would be better for it," Enjolras says, and he means it. 

Combeferre nods, like that's all the reassurance he needs. "Then I'll do it."

Feuilly arrives soon after with news that he's found the right people and currently has them spreading the word to other magic users that they know and trust. Jehan and Bahorel are with Feuilly too, both looking excited. It's exhilarating to know that they're getting closer and closer to their goal. 

"I've spoken with the dryads," Jehan tells them, as more of their friends wake up and assemble around the table again. "They've begun to make their way here."

"And how long will they take?" Enjolras asks.

"They'll make it here in two hours, at most," Jehan replies. "I've told them to keep their distance until we're ready to advance. I don't imagine that the sudden appearance of hundreds of trees will go unnoticed."

"I could help with that," Cosette offers. "I'm sure I could mask them all until they're in position. That would make a terrifying surprise."

Jehan grins. "I like the way you think."

"And once they arrive…" Enjolras begins.

"The barricades will be raised immediately," Jehan replies. 

"And the trees won't burn?" 

Jehan laughs softly. "Please, Enjolras. We're dryads. Our entire existence is based on protecting the trees in our care. They won't burn."

"Jehan will be maintaining the barrier keeping the castle and its surrounding area isolated," Bahorel says. "I'll be protecting them."

Enjolras nods. "Joly? Marius? Bossuet?"

"We went over a few offensive spells last night," Joly says, pointing between himself and Marius. "Neither of us are particularly good at them, so we'll primarily use defensive magic as decided before, and resort to offensive magic only when we need it."

"I'll be working," Bossuet replies with an apologetic shrug. "I'd say that the Goddess of Death does not take sides, but we all know that's not the case. I'll do what I can to help."

"All I require of any of you," Enjolras says to them, "is for you to try. We're fighting for ourselves."

The next two hours seem to pass in the blink of an eye, while somehow feeling like they go forever at the same time. Enjolras feels nervous, but doesn't allow himself to dwell on it for long. Courfeyrac and Combeferre don't leave each other's sides and Enjolras expects that they'll keep to themselves, but he's pleasantly surprised when they come and sit with him.

"Please, Enjolras," Courfeyrac huffs at the look on his face. "We love you just as much as we love each other. Only in a different way, that's all."

"Exactly," Combeferre says, nodding. "We're with you, all the way. Just as we've always been."

Enjolras smiles at them, feeling his heart swell with affection for them both. "I'm glad. I'm truly glad that you've worked everything out and that you're happy now, and I'm glad that you're with me."

"Always," Combeferre promises. "No matter what we're up against. No matter what happens."

Enjolras smiles, leaning into their embrace as they wrap their arms around him. They remain that way, until Feuilly, Cosette and Jehan return from their scouting, looking just as excited and nervous as Enjolras feels.

"The dryads have arrived," Jehan announces. "Once everyone takes their positions, I'll send word."

Enjolras nods, looking to Feuilly. "Shall we?"

"Most leaders of our smaller groups are already in position, waiting for the barricades to go up," Feuilly replies. "I'll move us into position and then we can let the dryads know. There aren't many places close to the castle for magic users to hide for long. Jehan, you're best telling the dryads now."

Jehan nods, waiting for Feuilly to open a portal to where the dryads are waiting. They take a deep breath, and sing one long, sustained note. Enjolras stares through to the other side of the portal, at all of the other dryads. He'd expected something like an army of humanoid trees who all looked much like Jehan, tall and thin, looking gentle rather than intimidating. What he sees instead are trees of all shapes and sizes, some the size of Jehan, others towering up into the sky, so tall that Enjolras thinks their legs could probably take them around the entire world if they walked for a week. 

"Those are all dryads?" he asks with wonder. 

Jehan smiles. "Yes. This is my family."

The dryads sing in reply and it's loud through the portal, and echoes in the distance. 

"Cosette, you can drop your illusion now," Jehan tells her and Cosette nods, doing so just as the ground begins to shake.

"Now it's our turn," Feuilly announces, closing the portal and opening another. "The royal guard should be distracted enough by the dryads that our arrival can go unnoticed. Cosette, I'll need your help with this."

She nods, waiting for Feuilly to open his portal before feeding her magic into it, making it grow bigger and much more stable. Its edges no longer waver and it hangs there in space like an oval-shaped doorway.

"Let's go," Enjolras declares, "and fight until we are free."

They hurry through the portal and Enjolras has barely a second to appreciate the twisting, thorny branches that Jehan has summoned up through the streets, covering buildings, creating an impenetrable barrier between the square around the castle and the rest of the kingdom. Then they're being attacked, and Enjolras doesn't have time to think about anything other than defending himself and his friends. He tries not to harm, as they'd all discussed the night before. They don't want to win their freedom with blood, and they have little chance of making magic something that is no longer feared if they use it to do harm. 

Enjolras uses all of the immobilising spells that he knows, only resorting to hurting the guards who attack him first. Enjolras notices the fact that there are Death Omens standing out of the way, watching. He knows what it means, and he doesn't let it stop him. Senseless death will get them nowhere, but that doesn't mean Enjolras has any plans on letting the king live.

Grantaire is with the rest of the group, looking even more lost than he did at Valjean's inn. Enjolras curses and moves closer to him, protecting him from a guard that slashes at him. 

"Stay with me," Enjolras yells, conjuring a blaze of fire that makes the guards near him back away. "If you don't know how to fight, you should have said. You shouldn't have come here and put yourself in danger."

"It's not that," Grantaire replies. "I don't—I don't feel right, Enjolras. I don't feel well."

"Damn it," Enjolras mutters, then casts a shielding spell to envelop Grantaire. "There. You'll be safe. Stay with me, or it'll wear out. Now come on, we're going to storm the castle."

Jehan's trees crawl across buildings, across the ground, towards the castle along with them, claiming more space for themselves, wrapping their branches around any fallen bodies they come across, binding them. 

Feuilly's smuggling network apparently extends into the castle. Most of the servants are waiting for their arrival, wielding makeshift weapons that are a combination of the tools of their trades and their magic. They look terrified, looking towards Enjolras and automatically picking him out as the leader of their attack.

"Forward!" Enjolras cries, and they storm their way through the hallways, past guards that have already fallen to the servants, heading for the throne room. 

"Enjolras," Grantaire says uneasily. "Please."

Enjolras ignores him, and Grantaire grabs his arm, holding him back. He looks for Combeferre, who is walking towards them, brow already creased with concern.

"I thought we agreed—" Combeferre begins, but Enjolras shakes his head, cutting him off. 

"No. The plan has changed."

" _No_ ," Grantaire protests. 

"I can do this, Combeferre," Enjolras says, quiet and calm. "Believe in me."

Combeferre nods. "You know that I do."

The doors of the throne room open with a loud bang. The king is sitting on his throne, with his small personal army of guards in between him and the door. Enjolras look at them, at the king, and feels his disgust grow to anger, his anger grow into something more, something terrible.

" _Enjolras_ ," Grantaire pleads one last time, and Enjolras knows that he should listen, knows that he should stop and back down now, leaving all of this to Combeferre.

Instead, he lifts his hand to the guards, eyes narrowing at them. " _Burn_."

The scene in front of them turns into a conflagration, filled with horrified screams. At the back of his mind, Enjolras realises that they don't all belong to the burning guards. He isn't quite capable of bringing himself to care. 

A rush of water follows the fire, from Combeferre. It's too little too late, and Enjolras simply steps past the charred remains, advancing on the king.

"Your reign is over," Enjolras tells him, placing his hand over the king's face, feeling him shaking with fear. His friends don't see the fire this time, and there are no screams. Just ash, falling to the floor as Enjolras dusts his hands off and turns around, meeting his friends' terrified looks with a calm smile. "I claim this power as mine, now. We are free."

:·:

In a sudden rush, the disconcerting emptiness in Grantaire's mind is gone. In its place, he has _everything_ ; a cacophony of past, present and future, blinding and deafening and brilliant. Grantaire forgets, remembers, is undone and remade, all in the space of a gasp.

He _remembers_.

Grantaire remembers everything, he remembers the past better than any history book ever written. He remembers this, he remembers being here, remembers a warlock and the lure of power. He remembers being unmade, remembers the feeling like a fresh wound.

He remembers Enjolras. He remembers himself. 

Grantaire remembers the cycle. 

"Cosette, no—" Marius says, and he's afraid, so deathly afraid, and is right to be so. Cosette is a powerful warlock but Enjolras is _Enjolras_. The God of Magic is patient, but the God of Magic is also angry and if Cosette is all of His kindness and love, Enjolras is His wrath. Grantaire knows. Grantaire has done this before.

Cosette will step in Enjolras' way, Cosette will fall, Cosette will die by the hands of the man she is trying to save from himself. Grantaire can stop that, but that's not the question here. This is a matter of just _how much_ Grantaire can stop, if anything at all. This is a matter of just how far he'll get this time.

"There's a myth," he says, stepping between Cosette and Enjolras. There's plenty of space between them, and he walks until he's right in the center of the room. He can feel the Goddess of Death watching eagerly, casting Her shadow over them, observing through the glowing red eyes of the Omens standing by the west wall. The Omens look terrified and Grantaire supposes that must count as some kind of achievement, to scare the agents of Death, Herself.

"Grantaire, I don't have the time for you," Enjolras dismisses.

"There's a myth," Grantaire repeats, more firmly this time. "Okay, there are several myths. Most of them born from the lips of drunkards instead of those who actually know anything. Luckily for you, I am both."

"Grantaire," Enjolras warns, lifting his hand and taking his time to gather his magic.

"Okay, there's clearly no point in telling you when I can just show you," Grantaire mutters. "For the record, I'd like to say that it's good to finally know why I've always felt like crawling out of my skin. Here I thought it was simple self-loathing."

Grantaire remembers. He knows the past and present and future and he can see it all and he can't see at all, he doesn't have the sight.

Grantaire isn't a seer, and he never was. 

The room begins to shake around him. Grantaire lets go, shuts his eyes, and plays his part.

The throne room crumbles, marble breaking against his skin. Enjolras is staring at him blankly, doesn't remember, but Grantaire already knows that. This, too, is part of the cycle. Enjolras rises and falls, lives and dies, and Grantaire does not. He tries and fails, forgets and remembers, returns when he is needed.

He lashes his tail, unfurls his wings, and roars.

Behind him, his friends are scrambling backwards in fear. Between Cosette and Feuilly, they'll be safe. It's Combeferre and Courfeyrac that will put themselves in danger. It's Combeferre and Courfeyrac that Enjolras will feel the most guilt for. Enjolras' attention is not on them at the moment and Grantaire does all he can to keep it that way. 

He takes a step towards Enjolras, growling low in his throat. "Stop this, Enjolras. We don't need to fight. Remember that you promised that you could handle this. You promised that you would stay in control of yourself."

"You are no match for me," Enjolras spits. "Not even another warlock can stop me. Am I meant to fear a dragon that had laid dormant at the back of your mind for _who knows_ how long? What can you possibly do?"

Grantaire sighs heavily. "For starters, I suppose I can decide that if we're going to fight, we're not going to do it here, right in front of everyone you're trying to free."

"What—" Enjolras begins, but Grantaire doesn't let him finish, reaching forward and grabbing him with his foreleg, shaking himself free of the rubble from the collapsed castle and launching himself into the sky.

From this height, he can see that the dryads are holding the entire capital, that their trees are moving across the rest of the kingdom. The battle is done, their fight is won, and it's Grantaire's job now to ensure that Enjolras does not undo all of their hard work.

"The problem with knowing things," Grantaire says to Enjolras as he flies away from the kingdom, to the barren planes of the east, "is that you end up being right about all the things that you don't _want_ to be right about. I knew I had to push you along, that you had to meet the right people at the right time. I thought I was helping. I didn't think I was leading us _here_."

Enjolras struggles in his grip and Grantaire closes his claw a little tighter. 

"Don't make me drop you, I'm trying to help."

"Let me go!" 

Dragon hide is thick, but that doesn't stop Enjolras from trying. He struggles harder, grows angrier, and whatever it is that has taken hold of him must feed off his anger. Enjolras forces Grantaire's claw open to free himself, keeping himself floating to keep from plummeting to the ground.

Grantaire knows what's coming next. He doesn't know why he holds his breath and waits for it instead of trying to escape. 

"I told you to let me go," Enjolras snarls, taking hold of Grantaire's wing.

"Yes, Enjolras," Grantaire says, gentle and strangely unafraid. "Yes you did."

"I shouldn't need to repeat myself," Enjolras tells him. He pulls, hard, and being prepared for the pain doesn't make it hurt any less. 

Grantaire plummets, watching as Enjolras drops his wing. He hits the ground hard, roaring in pain, bleeding so much that he slips as he tries to stand again.

"You are no match for me," Enjolras tells him again, coming down to the ground and watching Grantaire impassively. "I have no match."

"No," Grantaire sighs, trying to ignore the pain to keep his voice even. "You only have me, and look at what good that's doing."

A portal opens, and their friends come rushing through. Joly cries out in terror when he sees Grantaire's torn wing, and it's Courfeyrac who rushes towards Enjolras.

"Take my hand," he says shakily, holding it out towards Enjolras. "Take my hand, and we'll fix this. We'll fix all of it, Enjolras, it's going to be fine. I promise."

Grantaire knows how this is going to go, and feels Enjolras' guilt as sharply now as Enjolras will feel it later, once he's come back to himself. Grantaire struggles to his feet once again, and at least his tail is still dexterous enough. He knocks Courfeyrac out of the way, towards Combeferre, who he knows will catch him. 

"There's a myth," Grantaire tells Enjolras, "of a warlock born from all of the anger and hatred felt by the God of Magic. The warlock was created centuries ago and always carried a fierce passion with them, Magic's anger turned productive. Perhaps what the God of Magic didn't realise when He created this warlock, is that anger is self-destructive. The warlock grew in power, until that power became too much. They were stopped, the people learned to fear magic, the God of Magic had fewer followers, and grew angrier. It's a cycle."

"What are you saying?" Enjolras asks, frowning.

"I'm saying that kingdom you are fighting, with all of its laws against magic," Grantaire says, "is all here, the way it is, because of you. Perhaps not the you that you know now, but the person you were before. You repeat the same mistakes and I try and fail to stop you. We repeat the cycle, the fear of magic grows, the God becomes angrier, and you become more and more unstable with each incarnation."

Enjolras scowls. "You're lying."

"I met you for the first time nearly a thousand years ago," Grantaire tells him. "I remember it now. You were much happier then, but that is like comparing a ripple to the raging sea in a storm. Nearly a thousand years, and I wait for you every time, even if I've forgotten that. I try to stop you, you try to kill me, the cycle resets. If you are going to kill me this time, I have no power to stop you. All that will happen is that this situation will grow worse, and I will continue failing to make a difference, whether I am alive or dead."

"Please, Enjolras," Cosette calls out. "Don't do it."

Enjolras pays her no mind, just as Grantaire knew that he wouldn't. The spell he sends at Grantaire this time cuts through is dragon hide like it's nothing but cloth. With what little magic he can muster between the pain, he creates a ward to keep the others from getting close enough to be caught by a stray spell. Enjolras takes his time as he tears into Grantaire, making sure that it hurts. 

He doesn't stop until Grantaire is collapsed, his head bowed as he submits to the pain. Grantaire has lost too much blood to think clearly and he looks up at Enjolras, who stands over him like a furious god himself. 

"You know," Grantaire murmurs, pressing his snout into Enjolras' raised hand. "We were lovers once, centuries and centuries ago."

Truthfully, they were lovers more than once, but Enjolras doesn't need to know that. It will only upset him further. Grantaire takes a deep breath and smiles, baring his pointed teeth. "I told you once, back then, that if I had to choose a way to die, I wouldn't mind so much if it were by your hand. Perhaps even then, I knew what would happen without quite realising."

"Grantaire…"

"Kill me," Grantaire tells him, lying his head down on the ground. "At least then, I won't have to be around to witness you trying to clean up this mess."

"I have freed the people," Enjolras says forcefully. "They no longer have anyone to fear."

"Except you," Grantaire replies, unafraid to speak his mind now that he knows that he'll die anyway. "If you take the throne, you'll make a worse king than your predecessor. You won't last. You'll rise and fall and the cycle turns one more time, I won't be there to meet you. I suppose _I_ will be free."

"Well, then," Enjolras says coldly. "Who am I to deny you your freedom?"

With a quiet laugh, Grantaire shuts his eyes and prepares to die.

:·:

Somewhere, deep in the chaos of his mind, Enjolras is at war with himself. He struggles against this version of him that he desperately doesn't want to be. The beast, as Grantaire had called it, threatens to take control of him entirely and this battle is much more difficult than anything the royal guard could throw at him.

His anger has faded away, but it's been replaced by fear. From what Enjolras can tell, it serves to feed the beast just as well, strengthening its hold, until its thoughts are his thoughts. The power is like nothing Enjolras has ever known and it's addictive. He can see why warlocks in the past have lost themselves to this, but then he thinks of Grantaire's words. 

They repeat the cycle. Enjolras anger feeds into the God of Magic and feeds back into him. 

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Enjolras knows that there have never been any other warlocks to succumb to power like this before. It was always him. 

"Stop it," he says, in the confines of his mind. His voice is soft, weak, growing even more so as he steadily loses more control of himself. "I'm not going to do this."

The beast within him doesn't reply with words, but with a surge of anger and power. It's strong enough that Courfeyrac must feel it and Enjolras' heart skips a beat as he realises that Courfeyrac and Combeferre are right there, watching him lose control of himself. He can't let this happen, because losing control of himself entirely will mean that all three of them have failed. He can't do this, not when they've spent their entire lives doing everything possible to make sure that this doesn't happen.

 _It's too late_ , the beast tells him, smugness swelling in him. 

Combeferre had always told him that he has the strongest will of anyone they've ever met. Combeferre believes in him, and Combeferre is never wrong. 

"Stop," Enjolras says, and his voice is louder this time. It's more commanding, and he doesn't stop to question it, simply pushes back against the beast, fighting with everything he has to reclaim himself. "That's _enough_."

He seizes control of his mind, breaking out of his mental prison to find that he's standing there with magic gathering in his hand, hot enough to burn, and Grantaire lying on the ground before him, waiting to die. 

He drops his arm, drops to his knees, and takes in the damage he's done with silent horror. 

"Grantaire," he whispers. "Grantaire, oh, Grantaire, I'm so sorry." 

Cracking an eye open, Grantaire looks at him carefully and slowly lifts his head. One of his horns is broken and it falls to the ground from the movement. Grantaire bares his teeth, clearly pained, but quickly masks it, nodding his giant head at Enjolras. 

"Welcome back."

"Combeferre," Enjolras calls desperately, dispelling the ward that Grantaire had put up. "Help. Please. Fix Grantaire, fix what I did to him."

Combeferre comes hurrying over, the others right behind him, and he's frowning as he kneels beside Grantaire, gingerly pressing a hand to his neck, just above one of the gashes he's bleeding from. 

"I don't…" Combeferre's frown deepens. "He's badly hurt, and I don't know a thing about healing dragons. I don't know a thing about _dragons_ , period. Grantaire, is there any chance that you could shift back to your human form?"

"Not right now," Grantaire replies, no longer able to keep the pain out of his voice. "I think that shifting now will only do even more damage. And my wing…"

Enjolras looks at the torn wing, lying some distance away, and remembers the feeling of tearing it off. He takes a shaky breath, covering his face with a hand. "I'm a monster."

"I thought I was the monster," Grantaire murmurs, his eyes slipping shut. "Being the giant dragon and all, but that's fine. Rain on my parade. I don't mind."

Enjolras laughs brokenly. "Tell me what I can do. Anything. Please." 

"Anything?" Grantaire asks.

" _Anything_."

"Hmm, in that case, here's what you can do. Tell Joly to stop hovering so far away. Call him over."

Joly freezes up, but walks closer when Enjolras nods at him.

"Grantaire—"

"You're a better healer than Combeferre," Grantaire tells him. "No offence to Combeferre, of course, you're plenty talented on your own."

"None taken," Combeferre replies, as he tries to modify his healing magic to work on a dragon.

"You can do this, Joly." Grantaire says.

"Not without doing just as much harm," Joly replies. "I might even make it worse."

"You won't," Grantaire promises him. "I'm a _dragon_."

Joly frowns, looking around at the others. Bossuet nods at him encouragingly, and so does Courfeyrac. Joly takes a deep breath and steps closer to Grantaire. 

Enjolras hears everyone collectively breathing a sigh of relief when Grantaire doesn't cry out in pain, Joly included. Joly frowns in concentration and guides Combeferre to help him as he closes up the largest wounds first. Grantaire's bleeding slows until it stops entirely, and Joly turns to Enjolras.

"I need to reattach Grantaire's wing. Can you help me bring it over, please?"

Enjolras nods, walking over to where he'd thrown it. He picks the wing up, marvelling at its size, wondering how he had even managed to do so much damage to it. He carries it back to Joly, who directs him around to Grantaire's side with a grim expression.

"I need you to hold it in place," Joly tells him. "It needs to be just right, or it's not going to work the way it should. Don't move."

Enjolras nods and stays where he is, watching with horrified fascination as Joly works his healing magic, fusing bone back together, then muscle and flesh. The wing is scarred where it had been torn, but it works just fine when Grantaire cautiously folds it back in. Joly stands back, satisfied with his work. Grantaire still has smaller scratches, but they're nothing serious and he's insisting that Joly doesn't tire himself out by healing them.

"Can you change back now?" Enjolras asks, watching Grantaire carefully.

With a quiet laugh, Grantaire shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid not. I'll explain in a moment. Joly, I need you to come over here once more. You can heal this little cut on my foreleg."

Joly does so, startling when his arms begin to glow as soon as he touches Grantaire. "What's happening?"

"I can take a fair amount of damage and still survive it with some help," Grantaire explains. "The human vessel I was using, not so much. The Goddess of Death was specific with Her wording and I think you missed the loophole She threw in there for you. Her exact words were that you'd be cursed until someone died at your hands. You thought it meant that you had to kill someone. Personally, I think She liked you far too much to make you do that. You just needed to witness death. Or not witness it, in my case. Dragons don't die, but I'm going to be very conspicuous until I regain enough magic to find a new human form. I think it's best if I leave."

"But you'll be back?" Enjolras asks, frowning. "I understand if you never want to return, but I would like it if you did."

Grantaire snorts quietly, leaning forward to nuzzle into Enjolras' side. Enjolras staggers a little at the impact, steadying himself with a hand on Grantaire's snout. Grantaire hums contently, the sound coming out as a low rumble. "Of course I'll return. We broke the cycle for the first time since it started. I don't know what happens next, and I'd like to find out. I'll be back as soon as I can. You did well, Enjolras. You need to look past the damage and look at everything else you've achieved. Maybe work on building a temple for the God of Magic, so He stops being so damn angry all the time."

The others gather around him, watching carefully as Grantaire slowly rises to his feet. He's shaky, but manages it all the same.

"We'll see you soon," Bossuet says, smiling at Grantaire.

"That sounds so much more threatening when you're the one saying it," Grantaire mutters, laughing. "I'll be back before you can miss me."

They watch as Grantaire launches himself into the sky, flying up into the clouds, until he fades from sight. Enjolras looks away from his retreating figure just in time to catch Courfeyrac tackling him into a hug. 

"I'm glad you came back," Courfeyrac whispers, clinging to Enjolras tightly. "I knew you would. I knew we wouldn't lose you."

Combeferre joins them, placing his hand on Enjolras' back. "You did incredibly well. I'm proud of you."

Enjolras smiles, leaning into his friends' arms for a brief moment before he clears his throat and looks around at the others. "Our work isn't over just yet. I'm sorry for what I did, and I only hope that I can make it up to you, and to everybody else."

"You shouldn't beat yourself up over it. Especially not when this was all out of your hands. You should focus on the fact that you finally managed to break yourself free of that cycle that both you and Grantaire were trapped in." Cosette walks over to Enjolras, taking his hand with a smile. "If he says that you are the God of Magic's anger, I wonder what I am?"

"His hope," Enjolras replies confidently. "His love, his patience. You are all of his good qualities. I am the driving force, but perhaps you're the one who soothes the wounds I have caused, who helps people rebuild."

Cosette's smile grows even wider. "I'll do my best. We'll bring magic back to the kingdom."

"I'll take us back," Feuilly says a moment later, opening a portal that Cosette immediately stabilises, stepping aside to let everyone else through first. 

"This isn't going to be easy, I don't think," she says to Enjolras, but she doesn't seem particularly bothered by this. "But I have a feeling that it won't be _difficult_ either. Does that make sense?"

"We have centuries of stigma to overcome," Enjolras replies, nodding. "Most of it is my fault."

"Not _your_ fault," she tells him, shaking her head. "You were only doing what you were made to do."

"That doesn't make it excusable."

"No, of course not. But the important thing is that you now know _why_ you've done what you have. Now you can work on making sure it doesn't happen again."

Enjolras gives her a considering look. "Perhaps you have all of Magic's wisdom, too."

Cosette laughs softly, linking her arm with Marius as he walks closer. "Perhaps we can ask Grantaire when he returns to us. I'm sure that if anybody knew exactly what qualities I have, it would be him. I hope he comes back soon."

"Yes," Enjolras agrees, glancing up at the sky once again. "I hope so too."

Courfeyrac nudges Enjolras, raising an eyebrow at him when they're the last ones to walk through the portal, along with Combeferre. "Grantaire mentioned that you were lovers once. How about that?"

Enjolras simply shrugs. "What about it? I don't remember any of it, and perhaps that was before we got into this cycle where I nearly killed him, repeatedly. I'm much more interested in getting to know him for who he is now."

"But later…?" Courfeyrac prompts.

"Let's go," Combeferre interrupts, his tone both fond and amused as he pushes Courfeyrac along. "We don't want to keep everyone else waiting. There's a lot of work waiting for us on the other side of that portal."

Enjolras nods, holding his head high. There _is_ a lot of work, but it's work that he's dreamed of doing for years. He'll meet it eagerly.

:·:

A week after the magical revolution, as it comes to be named, the kingdom is already in much better condition than it was before. The dryads have undone the damage that they have caused, buildings have been rebuilt in mere seconds, and most residents of the kingdom capital have quickly come to see the merit of magic being used freely.

The only structure that hasn't been repaired is the castle, though Enjolras had returned there to clear away the bodies of all those he had killed. He'd insisted on doing it alone and returned to Valjean's inn stony-faced and ashen. Courfeyrac is constantly making sure to monitor Enjolras' moods, to keep him from upsetting himself too much. Combeferre is glad for it, because his only way of helping Enjolras is to focus his attention on the temple they're planning to build for the God of Magic. 

There is a street, in one of the capital's quarters, lined with temples dedicated to all of the Gods. The remains of the Temple of Magic have been carefully hidden, covered up by a garden that looks as if it's been there for a very long time.

"We'll build around it," Enjolras decides, pacing the length of the inn's front room while Feuilly sketches out a rough plan on a sheet of paper. "The garden is part of the history of the temple, there's no point in denying that. Do you think we can somehow incorporate a dragon into the designs on the stone?"

Nobody quite knows how to bring up the fact that Grantaire should have returned by now, so nobody does. Combeferre knows that Enjolras thinks about it a lot, that he's still waiting. Combeferre supposes that to a dragon who has lived for centuries, a week must not feel like very long at all. He's just glad that Enjolras is still waiting for Grantaire to return, rather than assuming that he doesn't want to and never will.

"You know," Courfeyrac murmurs, from beside Combeferre. "You always turn this particular shade of green when you're thinking hard about something."

Combeferre looks down at his arms, which are dark green with a tinge of blue to them. "Do I?"

Courfeyrac nods, smiling. "It's a beautiful shade."

Snorting quietly, Combeferre kisses Courfeyrac's forehead. "You say that about every shade of blue or green that my skin turns."

"That's because it's always true," Courfeyrac replies, kissing Combeferre properly. They're both smiling into their kiss, slow to pull apart until the front door of the tavern opens.

"Excuse me," a familiar voice says, "I think I'm in the wrong place, I was looking for an abandoned bookshop."

" _Grantaire_!" Enjolras cries, rising to his feet.

The man standing in the doorway is clean-shaven, his long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, but his smirk is just as familiar as his voice. "I did tell you I'd return."

"You took an entire week," Enjolras points out, folding his arms across his chest, but he's smiling. "I thought you said that seers aren't late for things."

"Well, good thing I'm not actually a seer then," Grantaire replies, winking. "I like what you've all done with the place. The kingdom looks much happier than it has for a long time. And hey, Joly, I like what you've done with your hands."

Joly flushes bright pink, ducking his head. He'd initially been excited to have his human hands back, but after spending so long being cursed, he'd grown too accustomed to his clawed hands instead. Not a day after the magical revolution, Joly worked out how to change his hands back into what they were before, without the curse causing pain to anyone he touched. Now they look more like Bossuet's, and Joly is happy. That, Combeferre decides, is the most important thing.

"I missed you," Enjolras says. "We all missed you."

"I'm glad to hear it. You look well."

"We're working on rebuilding the Temple of Magic," Enjolras says, pulling up a chair and beckoning Grantaire closer. "Tell us everything you know, so that we get things right."

Grantaire laughs, sitting down and nodding in thanks as Valjean passes him a drink. "I'll tell you what I know, but it looks like you're doing just fine on your own. You've always been good like that."

Enjolras smiles, his cheeks turning a faint red. Courfeyrac rests his chin on Combeferre's shoulder and hums curiously, quiet enough that only the two of them hear.

With a quiet huff of laughter, Combeferre elbows Courfeyrac.

"What?" Courfeyrac asks, but he's wearing the cheeky grin that Combeferre loves so much. "Just saying. Not even saying. _Humming_. I'm happy. We're all back together. We're all free. This is _great_ , and definitely worth humming about."

"I suppose that's true," Combeferre allows, and pulls Courfeyrac into his arms.

Their hands find each other instinctively and Combeferre feels all of Courfeyrac's love and happiness, just as he knows that Courfeyrac feels his own. Courfeyrac hums into their kiss, content, and Combeferre finds that he has to agree. This _is_ pretty great. He doesn't think that he's been quite this happy in his entire life. He's glad to share it with Courfeyrac, with Enjolras, with all of their friends. It was worth everything.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't have even made it past the halfway mark if not for the patience and support of [annaroserae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annaroserae), who is a _gift_. Thank you so much Anna!
> 
> And thank you to everyone for reading <3


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